Plucked
by corbinsky
Summary: Life after the Hunger Games gains some sense of normalcy for Katniss...or does it? Between falling in love with Peeta, planning a wedding under the Capitol's persuasive finger, and being blackmailed by Plutarch, Katniss realizes her life can't be normal.
1. Chapter 1

Plucked

Chapter One

I sit outside the open kitchen door in the late afternoon sunshine among the debris of three plucked game hens. Feathers float about my bare feet in tufty mounds, sticking to the weeds climbing up around the steps where I perch with a fourth bird held secure between my knees as I rid it of its plumage. With my brow set in deep concentration, I tug at an obstinate handful of feathers and yank them free with such force that I almost drop the hen in the dirt. Blowing my hair out of my eyes, I toss back my braid and get a tighter grasp for the next pull.

The day is warm and dry and, even with the sun beginning to dip beyond the mountain peaks, the heat of the afternoon clings to my skin like a damp sponge. I long for a cool breeze so common in the Meadow of District 12 but from where I sit alongside my house in the Village, no amount of refreshing air can reach me for an adequate chill.

The Village, or once named Victor's Village by the previous rulers of the Capitol, is alive with the sound of evening traffic. Aside from the three houses owned by actual Victors of the Hunger Games, the once vacant pre-built homes in the Village are now being used by any and all that need shelter during the reconstruction of District 12. The ashes of a ghost town have all been swept away, a memorial built in the Meadow for the lost. Skeletal frames of new homes, businesses, and government buildings are rising from the dust daily. Even from where I sit I can see the roof line of the new factory where many inhabitants of 12 will one day manufacture medicines for Panem.

Though the booming future of my district grows rapidly closer with each pour of concrete or hammered nail, for me it still seems far off. In the meantime, those who have returned from District 13, those who chose to make a new start at home rather than seek out employment in other districts, have set up camp in the Village and have created a kind of replacement Hob right there in the square. Buying, selling, trading, or simply sharing what they have for the well-being of all while the inhabitants scratch their way back to civilization, it is what District 12 does best.

I myself spend a great deal of time mingling with my neighbors after a day of hunting and scavenging in the woods. I'm not in need of much, doing more sharing than trading, and get along fine, just as I've always have. Though I can't see all of the activity from where I sit, I can hear the murmur and chime of voices mixing with occasional ruckus laughter from the Villagers as they move from station to station set up outside the open doors of the clustered houses. It is Saturday and, with a promise of a day off following, every voice rings with a sense of holiday and merry-making. It is a pleasant sound once foreign to these parts but growing increasingly familiar and at home.

"Still plucking your chickens, Katniss?"

I look up in mild alarm, meeting a pair of blue eyes full of amusement as Peeta appears around the corner of the house from the direction of his own across the way.

"I had hoped to eat before tomorrow's breakfast, you know."

"Very funny," I grunt, using my knife to deftly chop off both of the bird's feet at once against the sturdy wood step. My aim purposely lands precariously close to where Peeta's foot rests, causing him to jerk it back in safety. "There's one already on the spit. You won't starve tonight," I assure him wryly. "What's in the box?"

Glancing up, I take note of the lightweight pastry box balancing in Peeta's right hand, a basket of fresh bread under his other arm.

"A surprise," he responds vaguely, catching my incredulous raised eyebrows. "A birthday surprise."

"Show me," I insist, unable to hide a small sense of excitement from my face. My expression seems to have a pleasant effect on Peeta, but he doesn't relent, holding the box out of my reach and bypassing me through the open kitchen door before I can even attempt to nab it.

"You'll see."

"It's my birthday," I argue, whipping a decapitated bird claw and hitting him from behind as he walks away.

"Hence the surprise, sweetheart." Peeta tucks the box safely away on the highest shelf of the pantry and moves to set the basket of bread down on the table to prepare for dinner.

"Speaking of Haymitch…"

"I wasn't."

"I didn't see him in the Village earlier." I gather my limp, de-frocked hens, sweeping feathers and extricated limbs into a pile to take care of later. "He's not trying to duck out of this little party, is he?"

"No," Peeta shakes his head with his nose in a drawer looking for a knife to cut the bread. "Readying himself up, most likely."

Making a face of disgust, I glance toward Haymitch's house before crossing the threshold of my own. I wonder for a moment if maybe I should go over and drag him away from the bottle before he is completely incapacitated.

"He'll come," Peeta assures me, setting down the knife and taking the birds before I place their dirty carcasses on the clean table. There is something in his response that holds an underlying meaning, but Peeta is too good at keeping secrets to divulge anything, and I am never very adept at reading between the lines. "Just set the table, birthday girl."

He leaves me without giving away anything, but not before our fingertips linger just long enough in a gentle, brushing touch. Both hands are warm from their recent occupations, Peeta's from his baking, mine from my plucking. His are soft and clean, whereas mine are dusty with grit and stick with stray bits of down. Self-consciously, I drop my eyes from his gaze and pull my hands to myself, examining the jagged edges of my fingernails crusty with compacted dirt and animal blood.

"I better wash up first."

Bypassing the small washroom beside the kitchen, I head upstairs instead. Stripping out of my sweat-drenched clothes, I run the shower and quickly scrub away the scents of the day. I even use some of the frothy, fragrant body soap left behind by my prep team the last time they stopped by to work their miracles on my poor self-image. What my silly, lovable pets would think of me now after months of neglecting to hardly even look at myself in the mirror?

Toweling down, I do just that, frowning at my reflection but with no idea of how to rectify what I see. Who cares really? Who is there to look fabulous for? Not the Villagers, who are coated in more grit than I am most of the time. Not Haymitch, who carries a continuous, permeating stench of white liquor and stale vomit wherever he roams. Peeta, with his warm scent of cinnamon and dill…

I grab a file and attacked my nails vigorously, buffing them as clean as I can on my own devices. Combing through my wet hair, I at least manage to bring some sense of care to that with my simple but elegant braid. It is a signature look, but nothing else fits me better. Back in my bedroom, I pull out a lightweight, pale orange sun dress and slide it on. I haven't worn a dress in ages, but this is a special occasion. Besides…it is Peeta's favorite color.

I can remember the first time I wore it, dressing on the train before we pulled up in District 4 during the Victory Tour. I was already tired, sick, and shaky from the exhausted effort of trying to keep ex-President Snow satisfied with my performance and, despite Cinna's talented hand, the dress hung limply on my thin, pathetic frame. Not even the warmth of the sunset color of the garment could hide the circles around my hallow eyes.

When I stepped out of my compartment to ready myself for the awaiting crowd at the station, my eyes met with Peeta's where he stood alone, gazing out the window at the landscape flying by. He, though struggling like myself, still looked handsome in his white suit, his golden curls combed perfectly into place by his prep team.

The sound of my compartment door closing had caused him to look up and meet my gaze and, though he saw the emptiness there, he seemed taken aback by the sight of me in that dress. As though catching his breath, Peeta had blinked suddenly before recovering his composure and nodding, giving me his characteristic smile. "You look great."

I felt odd standing there in those frills, and I fussed with the folds of soft fabric billowing around my waistline. "It's orange," I fumbled, remembering that it was his favorite color. "Like a sunset."

"Yeah," Peeta nodded, watching me as I moved toward the window.

Looking for a diversion from his intense gaze, I nodded at the sparkling horizon. "Have you ever seen the ocean?"

Both of us knew that neither of us had, but Peeta answered anyway, following my direction and peering out at the distant waves. "No, you?"

I shook my head. "I'd be afraid to swim in that. So deep and unpredictable."

"I'd be afraid to swim in anything," Peeta laughed lightly. "I can't even float."

The train began to slow down, easing to a stop at the station. From where we stood we could see the carefully gathered crowd surrounded by stoic Peacekeepers wielding weapons and a sense of strained order. My stomach clenched, my breath coming up short. So many more districts to go and all I wanted was to go home and curl up in my bed to sleep forever.

I remember Peeta's hand slipping into mine with a reassuring pressure against my own damp palm. Our eyes met once again and he nodded. "Let's go."

Standing in front of the full length mirror now, I examine myself standing in the dress. Maybe I should pull out another one. Maybe even throw on a simple pants and shirt, be more like myself. Besides…it is just dinner with Haymitch and Peeta, just a simple birthday party.

Sighing heavily, I steel myself to return downstairs, the flowing skirt of the dress making noise against the door frame as I pass into the hall.

Despite his earlier instructions, Peeta has the table laid out with plates and cutlery by the time I return. Cloth napkins that I don't even know I own are folded and have been placed beside each plate while a set of long stemmed homemade candles flank an earthenware water pitcher full of blooming primroses. The sun falls through the open door and glints against the glassware causing the whole homey scene to sparkle.

"You're going to have to check this bird," Peeta says from the fire spit after I enter the room. "You're the expert on this…I just do bread." He glances up as I move forward and does a slight double take, standing up straight and catching a hand on the mantel as if to steady himself. Peeta keeps a straight face but can't hide the pleasant surprise in his eyes. "Looks like I'm under dressed."

I feel myself grow uncomfortable once again under his attention and have to look away, stepping briskly up to the spit and grabbing a knife and fork to check the bird. "I have all these dresses that just sit and collect dust. I really should get rid of them," I say practically. "Sell or trade them for something useful."

"Maybe…" Peeta agrees without much conviction. He has yet to move and our closeness brings warmth throughout my being that has nothing to do with the fire on the hearth. "Just not that one. That one you should keep."

A loud bang on the floor by the door brings us both abruptly back to the present, and we whirl around to see Haymitch stumble slightly up the steps into the kitchen. The noise came from him dropping a large wooden box, grunting and cursing as he pushes it across the floor out of his way. There is no doubt he has been drinking, but I am relieved to see he is no more intoxicated than his usual state-of-being.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he growls, sliding into a chair and noticing the nicely decorated table. "Is it somebody's birthday?"

"Nice to see you too, Haymitch," I exchange a look with Peeta who covers a smile and moves off to retrieve the prepared vegetables for the meal. "What's in the box?"

"A surprise," Haymitch responds curtly, pulling a bottle of wine out from under his jacket. The garment is too warm for the weather and he pulls it off, leaving it to lay on the floor by his feet and revealing large sweat stains beneath the arms of his shirt.

"All the surprises," I mutter, removing the bird from the spit and placing it on the plate Peeta provides. "You two are far too conspiring. It drives me crazy. First Peeta's box, and now this," I jab a sharp fork in the direction of the box on the floor.

"Bet mine's bigger," Haymitch pops the cork on the wine bottle and pours himself a generous cupful.

"More lethal maybe," Peeta counters. "I'd be careful opening that if I were you," he warns me, carrying the bird to the table and taking over the job of carving it into manageable portions.

"Open it for her then, if you're so worried about her well-being." Haymitch waves a careless arm, sloshing drops of wine on the scuffed wood floor.

"No way," I won't have any of that. "It's my birthday, my present."

"Go on then."

Leaving the table just after sitting down, I cross to the box and eye it warily a moment before prying off the lid and peering inside. Packed securely with sweet smelling meadow grass, I find a carved piece of stained wood, gently curved with no rough edges. Pulling it free from its case, I hold it up to reveal a handmade wall hanging with brackets to hang my hunting bows and pegs for my arrow holsters. Along the curved top, carved in the smooth, dark wood is a delicate, inlaid mockingjay.

"Oh, Haymitch." It is all I can say and in barely a whisper. It is beautiful, so perfect and finely constructed. "Did you make this?"

"With these hands?" Haymitch scoffs, holding up both and pointing out the unstable tremor which always plagues his dexterities. "Not in a million years. I had some help from a few of the Villagers, traded a great deal to get it too, mind you." The tone of his voice betrays his pride notwithstanding, and he shrugs off my look of pleased thanks. "Peeta designed the mockingjay."

Peeta also maintains a modest smile and ducks his head over his plate as if it were nothing.

"Well, thank you," I say softly. "Both."

Haymitch curses good-naturedly and knocks back the rest of his wine, reaching for the bottle for a refill. "What about you, kid? Where's your fancy box?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Later," he says, "after we eat."

I reluctantly and gently place my gift back in its box and return to the table, sitting next to Peeta and accepting his offering of boiled potatoes.

We soon engage in stuffing our faces with juicy slices of wild poultry, starchy vegetables swimming in butter, warm bread, and tart apple slices. We laugh over trivial stories and Haymitch's bad jokes, talking of mundane things happening in the district and Panem in general, avoiding reminiscing about anything much. I had received a birthday letter from my mother earlier which I read bits and pieces from out loud for them both to hear. It seems as though Mom has been spending some time with a fellow healer at the hospital where she works and, though the letter doesn't allude to much, we all speculate the relationship is more than meets the eye. I joke along with the others, but don't know how I feel of such a thing. My mother? Remarried? Not likely.

When we think we couldn't possibly eat any more, Peeta brings down the box from the pantry and presents me with my birthday cake. It is simple but elegantly designed at the same time. A creamy white icing embellished with fluffy, cloud-like yellow flowers resembling delicious looking dandelions swimming on a sea of foam. The cake melts on the tongue with a chocolate center of warm fudge. I manage two slices and lick my dish clean with content pleasure.

Both Peeta and I accept a celebratory glass of wine which we remove to the back steps just as the sun dips below the mountains leaving a canvass of swirling hues of pink, orange, and purple.

"I wish I had my brushes," Peeta says longingly.

"There'll be another sunset to paint tomorrow," Haymitch grunts, leaving us all in contemplative silence for a stretch of moments. I'm sure we were all thinking the same thing with stirred emotions. After so many trying occasions, thinking that we had seen our last sunset, it is hard to get use to accepting that there would always be another one to watch for many days, hopefully years to come. I sip my wine and pay close attention to the way it warms as it goes down, tingling my taste buds and burning with a comforting sensation. I note the way the tips of the trees lining the woods sway slightly in a breeze which only they could feel. I watch the flutter of a cluster of far off birds rising and falling in the growing gloom, the golden rim of the last rays of sun reflecting off a single cloud stretching across the western sky.

"Breathtaking," Haymitch manages to break the spell with his characteristic sarcasm. He has abandoned the glass and been simply chugging from the long-necked bottle, finishing off the last dregs with a deep belch of satisfaction. Now that the alcohol is gone, it is time to break up the party. "Happy birthday to all," he pushes himself to unsteady feet. "Be well, sleep careful."

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I mutter at his retreating, staggering form disappearing into the shadows toward the center of the Village. My comment causes Peeta to chuckle slightly but it only brings up a distant memory to mind for me. I allow myself to wonder for a moment how Gale is doing. I haven't heard news of him in quite some time but imagine that whatever he is doing, wherever he is at that moment, he is fine…and not likely alone.

"Never liked this stuff much," Peeta interrupts my musings and dumps the last of his wine in the grass beside the steps.

"Me neither," I mumble into my glass, finishing it off despite my statement of agreement. The effect of the alcohol mixing with the food leaves me feeling heavy and sleepy. Leaning in, I rest my head on Peeta's shoulder, grateful for his steady presence and companionship as the night draws closer and encloses us in shadow. Glittering lightning bugs flutter like miniature stars on the lawn, mirroring the much larger, stationary glow of the heavens overhead. If there is a moon, I can't see it from where we sit.

Neither of us speaks; content to sit and listen to the evening sounds of the Village. An owl awakes and hoots as if to signal a change in shifts, sending the day birds off to sleep in their nests until dawn. Something moves in the brush a few yards from the kitchen steps, and I see the glow of a pair of eyes. Buttercup is out hunting field mice.

Behind the house the voices of our neighbors carry in varying elevations as the Saturday night merrymaking continues with the chink of bottles, boisterous conversation, and the musical drone of a bow drawn across the strings of a fiddle. Someone calls for a dance and a guitar picks up the melody of the first instrument and keeps pace with a lively tune.

"Haymitch does much better on Saturday nights," Peeta points out. "He's not the only one up late drinking, gives him some company."

"I doubt he notices the company much," I argue lightly. "But it's an excuse, I suppose."

"That's one downfall of the revolution," Peeta agrees. "Liquor is no longer illegal."

"He'll eventually kill himself." It is partly a question, partly a statement that I dread the sureness of.

"Not if I can help it." Peeta presses in closer, reaching up and brushing the hair out of my eyes and planting a swift kiss on the top of my head as if it is an afterthought. The gesture is welcoming just the same, and I can't help but feel at home. It will be time for him to leave soon, go back to his own place for the night and leave me to the emptiness of my own. Leave me to the quiet of the kitchen and the darkness of my bedroom where even Buttercup will be missed until he has had his fill of hunting and returns to share my lonely bed.

To waylay him just a moment longer, I find Peeta's fingers in the dark and entwine them with mine. The temperature is falling with the enveloping night, and I shiver in my light sun dress. Without hesitation, Peeta slips his arm around my shoulders and transfers his warmth to me, tucking me against his chest with his chin on my head.

"Did you have a good birthday?"

I nod into his shirt, taking a moment to indulge in his aroma of fresh air and baking bread. "The best."

"Haymitch does put on a rousing party."

I giggle, feeling giddy from the wine. "He's such good company."

"No," Peeta grows serious again, "this is good company." His fingertips brush the length of my bare arm causing the hair to rise, and I feel my eyes droop contently. Maybe if I don't move he will remain here, gently rubbing away the strain of the day while I sleep. In the months since our return from the war in the Capitol, our complicated relationship has slowly begun to mend. Peeta has been cautious, I can tell, maybe not trusting himself quite yet. I also have been reluctant, preferring to suffer my nightmares alone like Haymitch, rather than let anyone in to make an attempt at fixing my brokenness. At times I feel like fleeing, but to where? I am still under instructions from the Capitol to remain in District 12 until otherwise notified. And what would be the point? My demons plague my mind, and I can't leave that behind no matter where I go.

Mundane routine has finally formed a semblance of a life for me and the other Victors, the only true friends I have left, if 'friends' is the right description. Haymitch is Haymitch, but Peeta is right. Peeta is good company. The only company, I have to admit, that I really long for.

"Listen," he got my attention, stopping the soothing motion of his hand against my skin. I do, and hear the sound of the fiddle changing its tune and slowing its momentum. It is a familiar melody, the District's version of a waltz we often play at special occasions. "Here," Peeta tightens his grip on my hand, getting to his feet and pulling me off the step with him. "One more birthday gift."

I'm not sure if dancing translates into a gift, but I accept his hands around my waist nonetheless and allow Peeta to pull me in close, resting my chin on his shoulder. Moving with the music, we turn slowly on the well-worn path before my door, wrapped in darkness and breathing in the coolness of the evening air. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his shirt and the familiar cadence of his breathing tickling the strands of hair circling my ear.

Closing my eyes, I lean into him and let Peeta lead effortlessly. The words to the song eluded me, but I find myself humming along softly to the rise and fall of the drawn out notes with each turn of the fiddle's bow.

"Beats those presumptuous bands at the Capitol balls, doesn't it?" Peeta smiles.

"Definitely. Although I could use some of that vomit drink, I wouldn't mind making a little more room for another slice of cake."

"Don't even joke about that," he shutters in disgust.

I laugh and step back as the song ends followed by the twill of laughter around a distant fire at the center of the Village. "Sorry, I guess I'll just have to wait and eat the rest for breakfast."

"Alright," Peeta reaches up and fingers the length of my braid hanging across my shoulder. "I guess this is where I say goodnight then."

"Yeah," I meet his eyes glinting like stars in the sporadic light of the candles still glowing in the kitchen.

"Happy birthday, Katniss," Peeta whispers before hesitating as if making a difficult decision and leaning in, brushing his lips softly against mine. It is the briefest of kisses, holding so much meaning in such a light touch. I almost lose my balance searching for more but he is gone, gliding into the shadows with a last minute pressure from his fingers to mine. Feeling confused and slightly deserted, I wait until his footsteps die and the night engulfs him completely before turning and rushing inside.

Closing the door firmly behind me, I release a withheld breath, blinking rapidly. I didn't expect that feeling to return, not this fast. The feeling of longing, of wanting more… I should have responded better. I should have held on to him and made him aware that I don't want him to go, that a simple kiss isn't enough. That for once, without question, I want him and him alone.

Doubts fall like a cold shower and leave me shivering in my own warm kitchen. Maybe that's what I want, but what does he want? Maybe there is a reason the kiss had been so slight, that he had backed away so soon. Is it still too painful for him to touch me in that way? Is each romantic gesture still obscured with shiny horrors of torture? But it was Peeta who suggested the dance, who brushed my hair away and caressed my arm. It was Peeta's old familiar look of longing that had caused me to blush under his gaze in the kitchen. I didn't misinterpret that, I was sure.

Ignoring the mess left on the table from dinner, I drift through the house stopping only long enough to blow out the diminished candles before taking the stairs to my bedroom. Slipping out of the dress, I leave it draped across the back of a chair and pull on a soft, cotton nightgown with ruffles that brush my knees. Despite the light attire, I feel stifled in the closed room. Crossing to the window, I crack open the pane and let in the refreshing night air mingling with the sounds of happiness and comfort from the townspeople down the lane. I stop to see if I can catch the sound of Haymitch's rough laughter but can't distinguish it from the rest.

Climbing into bed and burrowing down amongst the pillows, I expect another night of tossing and turning before I can find rest. The heavy food, fresh air, and wine work against me, however, because within moments I fall fast asleep.

My dreams are a collage of random snapshots. A tracker jacker nest exploding into dust turning to ashes blowing across skeletal remains to walls of lethal fog stretching its tendril fingers through towering trees. Faces swim out of the fog, faces of the dead overcome by its toxic fumes. My father with his coal smeared face, Finnick and his piercing green eyes, Prim and her golden hair…one after another, all the people I have ever cared for who have been stolen away by President Snow and his oppressive government regime.

The deadly fog laps against their immobile forms, wrapping about them like chains and squeezing like a vice until each one bursts under the pressure, exploding in a flash of feathers. I can feel the agonizing scream catch in my constricted throat as I watch my friends and loved ones transform into over sized mockingjays and take flight out of the consuming reach of the fog. In an instant they are gone, leaving me alone to face the debilitating effects of the arena's cruel torture.

Searching wildly about for an escape route, I hear the sound of feet crashing through the brush and turn to see Peeta running for his life out of the fog. "Run!" he yells, the sound of his desperate plea sounding muffled in my ears. "Run, Katniss! Go!"

In an instant he flies by, tripping over fallen logs and tangled vines before disappearing into the trees. Choking and coughing on toxic air, I attempt to get my feet to move but in the darkest levels of my dreams, I find myself sluggish and slow. Is it just the dream or are the effects of the fog really here to take me down for good?

With a scratched and worn voice, I attempt to call Peeta back for help. Struggling through the same brush he had just crashed through, I drag myself through the din, feeling suffocated by the darkness closing in around me. Fighting until I am sure I can go no further, I stretch out my fingers in desperation, grabbing at foliage to pull me forward. My body is like a weight of a hundred pounds holding me back. Each movement is agony, each breath shorter than the last. I am drowning in my own flesh and blood with no escape.

"Peeta…" I gasp, reaching, searching, sobbing without tears. My hand clasps something warm and solid. Looking up, I peer through the mist and find him, sprawled out on the ground with vacant eyes staring into nothing. Flesh burnt and black, tendrils of smoke emitting a sickening heat, and I know he is gone. "Peeta!"

The bloodcurdling scream I hear comes from my own dry throat, and I sit up straight in my bed, kicking aside the twisted sheet wound around my sweat drenched body. Heaving in desperate gasps of air, my eyes search wildly in the dark, reaching for any form of reality to ground me. Buttercup's tail disappears through the partially open door with a low, irritated growl for being disturbed. I can't care less about his feelings, thankful to be awake and separated from my nightmares once again.

Slipping out of bed onto shaky limbs, I feel my way through the dark to the bathroom across the hall, turning on the cold tap and splashing frigid water on my face, dripping it down my neck as I gulp handfuls with shaky breaths. It is okay, I am fine. Just fine. Peeta is not dead, this is not the Games…I am fine.

Despite my self-reassurances, I tremble as I returned to bed, fighting off the visions burning in my mind, both memory and dream. If only there is a way to forget, to pluck pieces of history from my timeline and chuck them away, like old scraps of fabric in a fire barrel, to burn away never to plague me again. Anything to sleep undisturbed, like a child without worry or fear.

There can be no sleep for me anymore that night. It is pointless to even try. The clock beside the bed gives the time as nearly two-thirty in the morning. Too early to get up, too late to force myself to sleep. The sounds of night life drift through the open window on a breeze causing my skin to rise in a chill, shivering in my damp nightgown. The bedding has fallen to the floor where I haven't bothered to pick it up and don't move to do so then.

The Saturday night partiers have dispersed leaving only the music of crickets in the tall grass as a lullaby to the sleeping Villagers. It is so quiet…and dark. My erratic shaking has little to do with the cold and beads of sweat brake out on my forehead once again, causing my hair to stick in clumps and snarls about my face. Is it my imagination, or do I hear a creak of a door downstairs? I am paranoid no doubt, still living in the after effects of the nightmare. It is probably just Buttercup moving around the kitchen in search of scraps on the table. I locked the door after coming in, didn't I?

Maybe…but that is not Buttercup on the stairs. The footsteps are too heavy and fall with certainty of direction even in the dark. My eyes dart toward the half-closed door, my hand sliding beneath my pillows and clasping to the handle of the knife I keep hidden each night. Someone is there, standing in the door frame, slowly pushing free a larger opening in the entrance. My breath catches in my throat, muscles tense.

"Peeta…"

"Katniss," he steps into the light of a burning street lamp filtering through the window, showing his strong features full of confusion and worry. "I heard you scream."

"How?" My grip relaxes on the knife, and I retrieve my hand from beneath the pillow.

"My window," he explains. "It was open."

Of course, I think, full of relief. Shifting on the bed, I sit up and make room for him to draw near, sitting on the edge of the mattress beside me.

"You're all wet," he notices. "Are you okay?"

I nod, relaxing and allowing him to pull my tangled hair back over my trembling shoulders. Unconvinced, Peeta frowns and places a hand on each, rubbing warmth back into my arms.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

He shakes his head, dismissing my apology. "I wasn't sleeping."

"A dream?"

"Of course."

"Me too."

We fall silent, and I can't help but groan as Peeta's hands find a sore spot in my shoulder blade, a tightness from hours of overexertion while hunting.

"Does that hurt?" he stops.

"No," I insist. "It's just sore. I over did it today I guess." Laughing mildly, I am thankful when he resumes pressure on my aching muscles, kneading out the knots like bread dough. All of my fearful quaking has desisted now that Peeta is near, though I still feel cold and wish for the warmth of my quilt lying on the floor. "Hand me that blanket will you?"

Peeta reaches down and drags the bedding back onto the mattress, preparing to tuck it around me. "Wait," he stops. "You won't get warm in that."

I look down at my nightgown, having forgotten that it is wet, both from sweat and water from the bathroom sink. Before I can do anything about it, Peeta is back to my aid, gently lifting the drenched garment off my clammy skin, over my shoulders and tosses it away. Exposed and helpless, I meet his gaze and find myself unashamed. Peeta covers my lap with the quilt and resettles himself at my shoulder. With unhurried, careful movements, he runs his fingers through my unruly hair, pulling it back and deftly coercing it into a fresh braid.

I finger the long, thick strand lying on my shoulder in slight awe. "The many talents of Peeta Mellark." I can sense his smile without seeing it.

"You haven't seen nothing yet, sweetheart." The softness of his touch, his hands, his lips…feel like butterfly wings on a delicate flower. There is no question of doubt in our closeness now, in our actions or response. I curl up in the safety of his arms with the residue of my nightmares banished from the room. For the first time I notice that Peeta has left his house in such a rush that he didn't even dress, wearing only the pair of pajama pants he sleeps in. Lying beside him in the bed, I run my own fingertips across his bare chest feeling an inward shiver quite new and inviting.

Recalling a vague memory of security and similar vulnerability, I look deep into Peeta's eyes and ask the question I already know the answer too. "Stay with me?"

It is there, deep in the blue that gazes back at me without wavering. Solid, honest and true, the boy with the bread answers: "Always."

This time my lips are the first to seek out his with urgency and longing that he can't doubt my feeling in the least. There are no cameras capturing our every move, no audience to dictate our emotions or haggle over our performance as if we were animals in a ring. There is no one but us and our need for each other, whatever that means. I don't care to analyze it any longer, I simply want to submerge myself in the moment and forget everything but Peeta and the feel of his lips on my skin.

In the heat of the moment the quilt is once again pushed aside and discarded. Peeta's strong arms wrap securely around my waist and pull me in, gliding a hand up my back and fingering the lacy edge of my undergarment. I encourage his interest by helping to remove it, dropping all pretext of modesty or shame. In all our time together we had seen each other in many degrees of undress, but this was different. This wasn't nakedness as a means of survival or a battle with the elements. This was revealing by choice and desire.

Peeta explores with such gentle caresses that my insides burn in full enjoyment of his touch, rushing to my senses and making me weak and dizzy with the intoxicating effects. Without hesitancy or fear of the unknown, Peeta brushes my hair back from my face, kissing my shoulders, neck, and jawline, all the way to my awaiting lips.

It is my turn to explore, and this time there is no insistence that he hide himself from my embarrassment. This is no wounded man in need of care, biting back pain without shame for his nakedness. This is capable, healthy flesh for my eyes only.

His reaction to my touch is full of longing which causes my heart to hammer within my chest. Clinging together as one, moving and thinking as one. I know I will never feel lonely again. The heat of his breath dampens my skin and I release an involuntary sigh of satisfaction. Slowly the momentum rises, releasing ever increasing waves of passion, each more blissful than the last.

Peeta is left shaking in the aftermath, lying beside me on the mattress, catching his breath with his eyes closed. I don't want to move for fear I might disturb the moment. As is his way, Peeta extends the perfect gesture to reflect our heightened emotions.

Touching my trembling fingers to his lips, he presses them there a prolonged moment before opening his eyes and finding mine. "Another memory they can never distort," he spoke. "Real or unreal?"

"Real," I smile, pushing his damp curls away from his eyes. "A perfect memory without any shine."

"No," he agrees, "just a flawless shade of orange."

The sheet is found and drug across the bed to cover us both. I settle in against Peeta's secure frame with a drowsy, content certainty that I will find sleep again before the sun rises. Sunday, a day of rest without work, I am thankful for it. I have no intentions of leaving that bed for many hours to come.

Peeta's deep breathing gives away his inability to stay awake and I smile, snuggling closer and closing my own eyes. No, there will not be any more nightmares for us that night. There is nothing to run from, we are already home.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

There is a difference in my reflection in the mirror this morning. Maybe it is because I am older, my birthday has passed and with it some remnant of youth that I had recently carried around in the lines of my face. Maybe it is because, for the first time in months, years maybe, I am truly happy. The idea spurs a smile creeping at the corner of my mouth, and I have trouble keeping it at bay. I have heard of the female tendency to beam after a passion-filled night with a man but always thought that stuff purely of romance tales that I never was one to give much credit too. Now I get it, and I am annoyed with myself for falling prey to such foolish giddiness.

Scrubbing my face with a rough, damp cloth, I attempt to erase that ridiculous expression, tighten the strap on my robe around my waist, and take a deep breath. Peeta had been sound asleep when I slipped out of bed and ducked into the bathroom earlier. I expect him to still be there when I return to my room but find him awake and sitting upright on the edge of the mattress. Most of the bedding is still crumpled at his feet on the floor where we had left it, a single white sheet twisted and draped just so he is not exposed where it matters most. His discreetness appears adorable to me, and I find the need to suppress another smile.

Glancing up when I enter the room, Peeta's eyes meet mine and he catches my expression, matching it with mild, amused confusion. "Good morning."

" 'Morning." I notice that he is fingering the chain of the gold mockingjay locket where it lies on my bedside table near the clock. It was his token in the Quarter Quell Hunger Games, his gift to me in an attempt to keep me alive for my family. I wonder if he opened it to see that Gale's picture has been replaced with an old one of my father beside the one of Mom and Prim. If he did, Peeta doesn't show it and his fingers drop, moving to a small glass box beside it.

"What's this?" Picking it up, he examines the tiny item inside set in a dimpled section of blue velvet. "The pearl?" Peeta glances up questioningly, turning the box and catching the sheen of the tiny orb under the light of the sun streaming through the window. "You kept it."

"Of course." I move and stand before him near the bed, gently taking the box and holding it in my open palm. "It was my token…in District 13, and in the Capitol."

"When I couldn't protect you," Peeta understood, his voice sounding husky with the emotion that the words implicate.

"When you were being tortured," I corrected, assuring that he knew it wasn't his fault.

Peeta watches as I set the box back in its place, lost in thought until I run a finger softly along his jaw line, regaining his attention. He looks up and smiles, though there is a trace of sadness still there. I pull him in, resting his head against my stomach and running my hands through his curls. Painful memories are no match for the lingering scent of passion still dusting the room, and Peeta pulls himself out of his reverie, drawing his own warm hands around my waist and caressing the fabric of my robe.

It is already nearing ten in the morning; we had enjoyed a nice lie in with nothing to insist on our rising. It is Sunday and we have the rest of the day to do absolutely nothing of importance. "You're free to use my shower if you'd like," I tell Peeta who finds the straps of my robe and deftly unties them, parting the front and softly kissing my belly button as if unwrapping a gourmet chocolate and savoring the taste.

"I could…" he muses, contemplating between succumbing to a desire and carrying through with an idea forming in his head.

"What?" I raise an eyebrow, familiar with his expression conveying a scheme.

Peeta glances over his shoulder toward the window and the crystalline blue sky melting with sunshine butter. "We should have a picnic."

"A picnic?"

"Yeah, spend the whole day outside. You can show me your woods and where you spend all your time you could be spending with me."

"You mean all that time you spend on your art and baking?" I return the jab, tugging his hair with a gentle pull.

"Ouch. Yes," Peeta pulls me just as roughly onto his lap to return the favor. "It's been a long time since I've seen those fabulous hunting skills."

"Who can hunt with you lumbering around in the brush?" My comment brings on further retaliation and he soon has me pinned on the bed unable to defend myself while his lips tickle the sensitive flesh along my neckline. "Okay, okay!" I relent, giggling and out of breath. "We'll have a picnic. I'll do anything you say."

"Anything?" Peeta ends his torture but doesn't release me just yet, inching closer and locking my eyes with his full of light and laughter in the dazzling shade of blue. I can only laugh, unable to come up with a proper cutting remark to that. Instead I find his lips with mine and leave the possibilities open for negotiation.

"Alright," Peeta brakes away eventually, rolling off the bed and reaching for his pants. "I'm going to run home to change and grab a few things for our little excursion. You—"

"Go down and eat the rest of my birthday cake for breakfast?"

He laughs at this and nods. "If you wish. Although I would think an experienced hunter like yourself would want something with a little more protein before setting out on a hike."

"I can get protein any time," I reply. "The cake's sugar will give me energy."

Peeta can't argue with this. "Then by all means, sweetheart," he leans down over the bed and leaves me with a final kiss before departing. "You are gonna need it."

I shower and dress after Peeta leaves and find Buttercup in the kitchen sleeping in a patch of sunlight on the table when I get downstairs. Shooing him to the floor, I set a pot of water to boil for my tea and remove the dishes from the dinner party the night before, placing them in a sink of hot, sudsy water. Devouring great forkfuls of sweet chocolate cake with fluffy white and yellow frosting, I enjoy my breakfast in the quiet warmth of the kitchen, touched with a nice breeze through the open door. It is a perfect day for a picnic. A little warm, but the shade from the trees in the woods will help keep us cool as we hike. The thought crosses my mind that we should invite Haymitch to join us but it is intoned with sarcasm as I am sure that he is blacked out somewhere in his house surrounded by sticky, empty liquor bottles and will undoubtedly slash at me with his knife if I so much as suggest it. Besides, I am sure that Peeta's intent for a relaxing picnic did not include a crowd.

I wonder what's taking him so long as I reluctantly move to clean up the kitchen. Household chores have never been my thing, but seeing as it is my house and there is no one else to do it, I feel like it's my burden to at least make some headway. I scrape the scraps of leftovers from dinner onto a single plate and set it out for Buttercup to pick through. I wash the dishes, dry, and set them in their places on the cupboard shelves. After wiping down the sideboards and table top, I reach for the broom and sweep a layer of dirt out the back door. I am filling a thermos with cold water and adding it to a basket of select items for our picnic when Peeta returns.

His hair is still slightly damp from his shower and, when he approaches me from behind and plants a kiss on my ear as a greeting, he smells of fresh mountain air. "I brought bread for sandwiches and managed to get some good cheese from the Goat Man." Peeta adds his contributions to my supply of cold chicken, canned fruit, and whole squash. "And for dessert, sugar cookies and sweet rolls…for your sweet tooth," he pulls a buttery, sugar coated cookie from its paper wrapping and holds it out for me to taste.

"Perfect," I mumble through a mouthful. Looking around the kitchen, I wonder if I am forgetting to add anything to the basket. Satisfied that it is enough food, I make sure I have my knife and grab my bow from the hall closet. I don't expect to really do any serious hunting, but stepping into the woods without it would be like walking into a town social naked. Remembering to pick up matches and an old blanket at the last minute, I hand the basket off to Peeta and close the kitchen door behind me.

Several of the Villagers milling about the Square call out to us and wave as we make our way to the woods beyond the Meadow. Peeta holds up a portion of the wire fence for me to pass through and we strike out under my direction deep into the shelter of the thick growth. There are a few places in the woods too sacred for me to take Peeta. Places I have trouble even going on my own, without Gale. But, with plenty of time and nowhere to rush, we keep a steady pace and head for the lake. I am right in thinking that I won't see much game, and not just because Peeta is with me scaring it all away with his heavy footfalls. It is too early in the season to see many critters with any meat worth taking. Besides, the heat of midday is settling in and driving all the rabbits and squirrels under cover for shade.

By the time we reach the lake it is after noon and we are both shining with sweat, bellies aching with hunger. Peeta has never been to the one-room stone house where my father used to take me while gathering food for our family when I was young. He is interested in everything from the lake to the house and explores every inch with his eyes in appreciation.

Although we are both starving, nothing is to get done until we strip off our sweat dampened clothing and take a refreshing dip in the ice cold water of the lake. Peeta has never learned to swim much more than to keep himself afloat so I leave him close to shore to soak while I take a few long laps across the smooth surface. The water tickles my burning skin, the mud floor squishing delectably between my toes.

Submerging below the gentle rippling waves, I hold my breath for as long as my lungs allow and listen to the pressure of the water in my ears. Bubbles' popping with the movement of small fish startled by my presence, every sound is amplified in that subterranean space. Pushing off with my feet, I reemerge and take a deep breath of fresh air, whipping my drenched hair out of my eyes.

"Katniss!" Peeta calls from the shoreline, waving me over. I take large strokes and return to his side in water chest deep. He is holding something that glints under the sun, small and circular in his hand.

"What is it?" I peer closer for a better look.

"A ring," he tells me, crooking it on his little finger and holding it up. "I felt it with my toe and pulled it out of the mud." It is a ring, gold with a pronged setting devoid of its stone. "I wonder how long it's been here."

"A long time probably," I say. "My dad told me there used to be a lot of houses around here, ages ago, before the Districts even. Just like that one," I nod toward the little cement cabin, "but not built as strong. People would come and bring their families to the lake for holidays."

"Must have been rich," Peeta concluded, "to have two houses. Not even everyone in the Capitol can claim that. I bet this belong to one of them, some wealthy lady taking a dip to cool off and coming up with a naked finger." He squints at the ring and turns it over in his hand. "Too bad the diamond is gone."

"It's probably down there somewhere, deep in the mud," I speculate.

"Not for us to find," he returns to shore, setting the ring down on a nearby flat rock so as not to lose it. "Could be worth something tho', in a trade." Wading back to where I stand, Peeta forgets the ring and slips his arms around my middle, brushing my bare skin beneath the cool water. "I can see why they came here, it's beautiful and…peaceful."

I wrapped my legs around his middle and hold on comfortably. "I always have thought of it as my little vacation spot away from everything. Even after my dad was gone and I got used to being in the woods alone, I knew I could come here and rest, to not be afraid of Prim starving, or getting caught by the Peacekeepers, or the reaping… For some reason, I often felt secure here, like I was untouchable if I was in the lake and no one could harm me." Saying these things, I almost forget I am speaking out loud, trailing off into silent memory.

Peeta says nothing, listening and waiting patiently for me to say more or to come back from my thoughts on my own. When I do I look at him I laugh a little sheepishly, embarrassed by this rare moment of opening up. "It's just a special place, I guess."

Nodding, Peeta agrees wholeheartedly, kissing the tip of my nose before moving in for a more sensual, longer lasting touch to my lips. A heat within me rises once again with his affection and I meet it with full abandon, growing use to this new expression of love that had been building for Peeta, expanding to greater heights every day.

Few things leave me feeling as wonderfully helpless as this personal and intense act of love and it leaves me weak and at peace, stretching out in the sun sucking up the warmth of the smooth, dry rocks where we move to lie down. It seems to have the same effect on Peeta and we are silent for some time with only the song of mockingjays lingering with our steady breathing.

"Are you asleep?" Peeta asks lazily.

"No," I open one eye and blink as the searing sun hits it. "But I am starving."

"Me too."

Gathering our clothes, we slip them on even though our skin is still damp from the swim. Lying out the blanket on the floor of the little house, we take some shade and spread out our meal with growling stomachs. I am tempted to dip into the dessert first but the aroma of hearty cheese, bread, and chicken changes my mind and I inhale two sandwiches before even stopping to quench my thirst with deep gulps of cold water.

"This wouldn't be a bad place to live, permanently." Peeta glances around from his perch leaning against the frame just inside the door. "Secluded, quiet…plenty of water and food."

"If you know how to catch it," I tease, but not without agreement. I had often had the same thought myself. "But what about your bakery?"

Peeta shrugs as if this isn't that important. I know better though. The massive structure being built in the center of town back in District 12 is his pride and joy, a sort of shrine to his parents who were lost in the air raids and fires during the rebellion. It is also a gift to the people of 12 since he had little intention of working there himself. I am sure that he won't be able to keep away completely, overseeing the other bakers to be hired when the time comes. He has so much he can teach them and such a talent that no doubt there will always be a work station for him among the decorative cakes. People will assuredly put in special orders from as far as the Capitol just for his signature designs. But as much as he is skilled with frosting, Peeta's real desire is to paint, and that can be accomplished far better away from the bakery.

"I could run a business from here, couldn't you?" he says.

"I couldn't run any business," I scoff. "The employees would hate me."

"No one could hate you."

"History has proven otherwise," I respond wryly. "No," I think about it seriously, voicing something that has been playing at the back of my mind for some time. "I want to do something else."

"What?" Peeta cocks his head curiously, sucking the sticky syrup residue from a can of peaches off the tip of his thumb.

"I want to teach," I announce, surprising him. "Not like a normal teacher, not like the ones who taught us in school. But like a class for survival, you know? I have all that information in that book at home about plants and animals, what works for medicinal purposes, what's safe to eat…I don't know, but I think it's useful and people might find it interesting."

"It is," Peeta agreed enthusiastically, "both useful and interesting."

I nod, considering it further and reaching for a sweet roll. "I want to finish the book, with your help if you want. Put all the information I learned from training for the games, anything else I can think of that would be informative, all of it down on paper with illustrations. Maybe include some stories and memories of my father when we went hunting, of my mother when she would heal someone's wounds. What do you think?"

"I think it's brilliant," Peeta looks as excited about the prospect as I feel. "I would love to help. And someday you could make copies, sell them to other Districts if you want."

"Yeah, and I thought maybe there might be some people around here who would like hunting lessons. I could try my hand at making new bows again, teach people weaponry for survival. I know there isn't much of a need for it now, but I think it's important. People, especially kids, need to know the importance of nature, how to use it and care for it so it lasts."

"I agree."

I can't help but smile now, imagining the prospects and wanting to get started with my ideas right away. _This is it, Cinna_, I think. This is my talent, this I can do. If my gifted stylist could hear my plans now, I have no doubt he would give his enthusiastic consent and be proud.

The food, warm sun, and exercise make us both sleepy and, after cleaning up the remains of our meal, Peeta and I stretch out on the blanket and doze off. I awake some time later to find him still deep in his sleep, and I gently brush the hair from his forehead, careful not to wake him. Finding my bow and sheath of arrows, I scratch a simple note in the dust on the floor of the cabin to inform Peeta that I've gone hunting.

The sun tells me it is already after four and though we could head back and make it home in time for a late dinner, I think it would be nicer to hunt up something where we are and take our time returning. Walking with bare, silent feet, I wind my way through familiar territory and enjoy the solitude of the hunt. With sharp eyes and ears, I search the low-lying ferns for animal tracks and scan the tree tops above for movement of wing.

I set a simple snare near a brook and head south a few yards, walking in the icy chill of the runoff to cool my feet before squatting down and waiting. My thoughts drift back to Peeta's and my earlier conversation and a list grows in my mind of all the things I want to record in my survival guide. Poor Peeta doesn't know what he is getting himself into, agreeing to come on board and help with the artwork. I'll be taking him away from his own projects and he has enough to think about with the construction of the bakery and all.

It does please me to think that I have him, however. The idea that we are so compatible in our desire to use our talents to help others makes my choice all the more easier. Not that I would have gone off with Gale to another District if I had chosen to deny Peeta's affections, but I'm glad that I haven't. We can help each other in so many ways. Well, Peeta more than me, but I can at least help him heal. If even my presence by his side helps him to sleep a little less fitfully at night, than I guess I'm good for something.

The snap of the snare coming to and the scuffle of the furry victim in its clutches brings me back to life, and I return to remove the struggling rabbit from its noose and break its neck to end the suffering. That, along with a bird I shoot out of a tree on the way back to the cabin, will make a nice dinner with the remains of our picnic.

Stepping lightly through the door, I drop my kill just inside and set down my bow. Peeta is still asleep but restless. His eyes dart around behind their lids, and I know he is dreaming something terrible by the involuntary twitching in his fingers. There are beads of sweat dampening his hair, and his breathing is erratic and jagged in his chest.

"Peeta," I whisper, kneeling down and touching his arm ever so slightly. The light contact causes him to jump, whirling around into a defensive sitting position and grabbing my wrist in a vice grip. For a split second that old, gut-clenching look returns to his eyes, dilating the pupils a deep black and my own breath catches in fear. In an instant it is gone and Peeta returns to me, though dazed and haggard from the effects of the nightmare.

"Katniss," he breathes, loosening his grip and settling back with shaking hands. "I'm sorry."

"What was it?" I ask, watching him carefully. "The dream, what did you see?"

It takes him a moment to respond and Peeta returns my look with one of uncertainty, even a little confusion. "Nothing…" he mutters, getting to his feet.

I follow. "What was it?"

He waves off my insistently, glancing around the ground as if he's forgotten something, looking lost. "I said it's nothing."

"That's completely unfair," I argue. "You would make me tell you."

"Yeah, and you wouldn't," he laughs almost harshly, moving away towards the empty fireplace across the room.

He is right, of course, but I want to know. What does he dream about that drives him to such distraction? More hijacked nightmares, twisted versions of old memories…of me? Will he always dream these things and have to fight back against the rage that isn't his? Just like I will always wake up screaming for all the times I think I've lost him?

Walking cautiously to within inches of where he stands leaning against the mantel, avoiding my eyes, I stop and plead. "Please, Peeta. Just tell me what you saw."

His distraught expression searches mine and he relents, sighing heavily and slumping down on the cold, cement floor. Leaning against the side of the stone surround, he waits for me to join him, limply taking my hand and resting it with his on his knee. "I saw what I always see. You, dressed for the Games…the first Games. We're in the cave, and you're giving me the medicine that you almost died to get at the Cornucopia. Except it's not medicine…it's poison. I realize that you're trying to kill me, just like the hijackers at the Capitol tried to convince me you had always wanted to do. So I grab the needle, force you to give it to me and…inject it in you." Peeta stops, head down in disgust with himself for reliving the details out loud for me to hear. I don't know what to say so remain still until he finishes his retelling.

"You lay there, motionless and I stare at the poison in my hand, not believing what I've done. Usually, it's then that I wake up but…this time," his eyebrows knit, remembering. "This time there was more. This time, I hear a noise behind me and look. At the entrance of the cave I see you. Not the dead you, but a smaller version of you standing in a light dress with two braids in your hair instead of one. It's a little girl exactly like you but staring right at me with blue eyes…like mine."

Peeta looks up and meets my look of surprise. Do I understand him right? Is his conclusion of the dream the same as mine? That isn't me as a little girl; that is…

"Our daughter," he says the words that catch in my tightened vocal cords and remain trapped. "I think she's ours."

I don't think it, I know it, and the thought gives me chills. A daughter, a little girl who looks like me but with Peeta's eyes… But that couldn't be, I don't want children, I've never wanted children. Of course that was before, when the reaping could have swept in and carried them away. But now…now I don't know. I hadn't allowed myself to even think of it.

My apprehension is obviously written on my face because Peeta releases my hand and stands up again, walking to the door. "I know," he sounds even emptier now, having confirmed something in my reaction that he knew would be there. "It's not possible. I mean, we're not even married."

"Yes we are," I say, surprising even myself. He turns back with a frown of disbelief. "I mean, according to everyone in Panem," I shrug and almost bring forth a sardonic smile from Peeta. "By your quick-witted schemes by the way," I point out.

"Yeah, okay," he accents, rolling his eyes and leaning back against the wall with arms crossed. "But we're not."

"But we could be." I am confusing him again and mixing myself up in the process. What am I saying, we could be? Did I even want to be?

Yes. Without thinking too deeply, my first response to myself was yes, I did. And why not? Hadn't I just admitted to myself that we are perfect for each other, that we need each other? I know I need him, want him and since everyone believes it anyway the only ones needing convincing is ourselves. "Why not?" I ask, looking up.

Peeta doesn't have an argument, but I can tell by the struggle on his features that he is looking for a hole in the plan. He is looking for the angle because I always have one.

"I'm not playing in some game here," I assure him. "Do you see any cameras? No ulterior motives, no Haymitch telling me what to say in an earpiece…" This gets him to smile and I return it with a genuine one of my own. Getting to my feet I cross to where he stands once again and gently take his hands, pulling his arms away from his chest and easing them around my waist. Looking him earnestly in the eyes, I make him believe me. "Peeta, I want this…honest."

Before he can argue or bring a voice of reason to the situation I seal the deal with a long, passionate kiss that steals his breath and convinces him for good. Pulling away, his eyes remain closed a prolonged moment and he gives in. "You love me. Real or not real?"

Curling up in his arms, in the security of his muscular frame, I smile to myself and whisper: "Real."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Originally we decide to keep thing simple, do things the District 12 way and just take our vows in private, at home. But I think about my mother and how she would like to be a part of such an important decision, and that makes me think of Prim. How, if she had been there, she would have made a big deal out of everything, how she talked for days about each one of the dresses the Capitol had sent for my first plans of a wedding ceremony. Peeta suggests compromising and having a simple celebration with close neighbors, friends, and what remains of our family. Hazelle and the kids are basically my extended family and I think of them next. Even though I haven't seen them since they moved to District 2 to be closer to Gale, I still want them to be a part of my new found happiness.

Gale. What will he say to an invitation? I can't invite his family and not him, but did I really want him to be there? As a friend yes, but the awkwardness of the situation gave me qualms. I decide to include his name on Hazelle's invite and leave it up to him. I am aware that Peeta is watching my growing list of guests carefully and know I am right when he seems relieved that I don't single Gale out specifically. Knowing the situation is uncomfortable for him too makes the decision feel like the correct one.

"If you're inviting your prep team then you have to invite Effie," Peeta reaches with the tip of his charcoal sketching pencil and taps the top of my paper on the table where I sit and stew over the details. This is getting to be an even bigger headache than I intended and, though Peeta is always willing to help, most of the planning seems to be falling on me. It is just a wedding, why does it have to be so complicated?

"Yeah…" I agree vaguely, but have my reservations. If Effie knows, everyone will know and that is the last thing I want.

Effie is added to the list nonetheless, lest we receive scathing admonitions for neglecting to include her. Delly Cartwright, Johanna Mason, Beetee, and Annie O'Dair and her baby…this small, intimate affair was quickly expanding into a rather large scale event.

"Where are we going to put all these people?" I moan, dropping my pencil and rubbing my tired eyes.

"Tie them up in trees for the night," Peeta suggests without looking up from his sketch of a beetle like insect which is an excellent source of sustenance in the wild if a person were ever in need of it. Scraps of paper litter the kitchen table beside his art supplies and my family book of survival tips we are working hard to finish. "Don't worry, Katniss. Between here, my house, and Haymitch, we'll make sure everyone has a place to stay."

"Haymitch?" I wrinkle my nose. "I wouldn't subject anyone to that pig sty."

"I'll make sure it's properly hosed down on the day."

"The house or Haymitch?"

"Both."

The television in the corner flashes on as the evening announcement from the Capitol arrives on the screen. Usually I ignore these, as I have no interest in government meetings, updates on the reconstruction going on in each district, or the latest footage of Sepathlon training. This new addition to Panem is Plutarch Heavensbee's idea. A seven part athletic competition to replace the Hunger Games, an annual event to be held in the Capitol where members of each district could send willing volunteers to represent their District and show off their skills in regulated hand-to-hand combat, strength exorcises, and endurance tests. The winners of each category of the competitions will receive medals, glory, and recognition for their Districts. Peeta and I had laughed at the concept when we first heard of it. Watching the training clips on television is like watching our own sessions before the Games, except for a few major differences: there are no weapons training, no survival tactics, and no fear in the eyes of the competitors that they are training to fight for their lives.

"Only Plutarch would come up with something like that," I had commented the first night the new games were announced.

"It's not an entirely new concept," Haymitch had pointed out. "There were once competitions held all over the world, just like this."

"It's so they can make money," Peeta input. "They're realizing just how much the thrill of the Games sustained the high cost of living in the Capitol."

It is true, but Putarch, head of the organization team for the Sepathlon, claims it's to bring pride and camaraderie to the Districts. After all, hadn't the 75 Hunger Game tributes shown great companionship both outside and in the arena?

"Yeah, when we weren't trying to kill each other off," I had muttered at the screen sardonically.

Maybe he has a point, but I don't want anything to do with it. I am just thankful there is no Reaping, no mandatory sign up for competitors. The fact that all participants have to be eighteen years or older also eases my distaste for the games, but if there is ever any talk of reverting to old customs I will pack up and leave. No fighting this time, I'll disappear into the woods and never return.

Tonight's broadcast doesn't say much about the ongoing plans for the upcoming Sepathlon. Within seconds of the opening greeting to the Districts from the Capitol, President Paylor appears on the screen with a grave face, and Peeta and I turn our complete attention to her words.

"Good evening, Panem," she begins. "I come to you tonight with an announcement that there are reports of grave criminal activity taking place in District 2 involving a rebel terrorist unit. According to official sources on the scene, a group referring to themselves as the Peace Restoration Force, or the PRF, has created a stronghold in the abandoned mines in District 2. Made up of old remnants of the now defeated ex-Capitol regime and their new recruits, the militant tribe triggered explosive, pre-laid devices within the children's wing of the newly constructed hospital, setting fire to the wing and killing all thirty-two patients, fifteen members of staff, and two hospital guards. In the aftermath of this tragedy, armed forces were sent, under the direction of intelligence informants, to where it was believed the PRF hideout was located. However, no traces of the rebels were found. The Capitol urges all Districts to be on alert, to keep a watchful eye for any suspicious activity in your areas as it is believed that the dissidents are on the run and seeking a new locale to set up further operations of terrorist activity. Our hearts go out to the families of the lost…"

I glance at Peeta whose eyes betray my same feelings of confusion and anger. This was supposed to be over. All of the old followers of President Snow were to have been captured, tried for their crimes, and sentenced. Who are these people and how were they missed?

"That's some intelligence if they knew who they were, where they were hiding, and what their intentions were but still couldn't stop it." Peeta voices my critical skepticism. "Why didn't they shut them down before this?"

I shake my head, thinking of only one thing. Gale works for the defense intelligence department in District 2. Was he a part of the team that missed the evidence of dissension? Or are the PRF, whatever they are, just that good at hiding their schemes? I don't know what to think about the whole ordeal, but am thankful that my mother is working in another District hospital and not in 2.

"Why just the kids though?" Peeta breaks into my thoughts. "Why not the whole building?"

"Because," I respond as the screen goes blank and the kitchen returns to its usual undisturbed quiet. "Because of the children killed at the Capitol." I close my eyes a moment, trying not to picture the image that still haunts my dreams, of Prim going up in flames while trying to save the Capitol's dying children in a bomb riddled pen before the President's mansion. "Blood for blood, it's only fair." My voice is empty with the meaninglessness of it all. Nothing ever changes, wars never end. They all go on and on without purpose. Peace time is nothing but a mutual agreement of cease fire, a timeout to collect the dead and plan the next move.

"This isn't over is it?" Peeta understands.

"No," I mutter. Not by a long shot.

I am right about Effie not being able to keep her mouth shut about the wedding. Within a day after I send out the invitations I receive a call from none other than Plutrach Heavensbee himself. He isn't looking for his invitation, isn't upset that his name missed the final count. All he goes on about is how excited he is that we are carrying through with the plan and how ecstatic all of Panem will be to finally witness the nuptials of their two favorite Victors.

"Witness? No, Plutarch, there will be no witnessing by any of Panem besides those here in District 12," I assure him firmly. Under no circumstances will they turn our wedding into a televised event, they had no cause anymore and I told him so.

"No cause? My dear girl, we have every cause," he acts taken aback by my hostile response. "You're the Mockingjay! Peeta is the Prince of Panem, the people need this! You can't deny them the pleasure of something so inspiring at a time like this!"

A time like this…full of fear of the rebels attacking more hospitals, the threat of livelihoods with word of seasonal floods in District 11 destroying whole fields of produce and wild fires in 7 causing a downturn in lumber production at time when every District is attempting to rebuild. Yes, I understand that spirits are low, but that isn't my problem. The Capitol needs to find another mascot for their agendas.

"No, Plutarch," I repeat with emphasis, telling him how it's going to be as Peeta appears at the door with an armload of fire wood, his hair damp from the rain falling steadily outside the kitchen window. "No cameras, no lead up specials or interviews. We're having a quiet ceremony, just us and a few friends."

Peeta meets my expression with raised eyebrows, listening carefully while stacking the wood and stoking the fire to dispel the chill from the room.

"I don't think we understand each other," Plutarch is trying to remain jovial. "I feel it my duty to remind you that you are still under watch, young lady. You assassinated a President of the Capitol in front of thousands of witnesses. It is by their grace that you were not executed or are even free to marry at all. I would jump the chance at airing the ceremony if I were you, Ms. Everdeen, or you might find your life in District 12 slightly less comfortable."

"That's blackmail!" I yell into the phone, disgusted and in complete disbelief.

"That's television, little bird."

I prepare to scream several more choice phrases at him for his deviousness when Peeta intercepts and snags the phone from my furious grip.

"Plutarch? Peeta here…yeah," he glances back at me as I slump into a chair and kick the table with my heel. He pauses to listen for several seconds looking exasperated by much calmer than I. "I understand. Yes, we would be honored to have you as a guest…"

I shoot him a vehement glare and open my mouth but Peeta waves me off before I can speak and turns away, blocking me out of the conversation.

"Of course, we agree completely. I can think of a few people myself who will be grateful for the opportunity to view the event from home. Yes…but there will need to be stipulations, you know that, Plutarch. Katniss and I don't want a big show. Only the guests we have already invited will be allowed to attend here in District 12, understood? We want a District 12 wedding, no fancy Capitol fanfare, no theatrics. And only one camera crew."

"Cressida!" I jump in, insistent that if we were going to do this I want someone I could trust running the show. "I want Cressida and Pollux only, no one else."

"Did you catch that, Plutarch?" Peeta turns back around and nods at my suggestion, repeating the request and insuring that it is followed.

"And I pick my dress," I add for good measure. "No voting or photo shoots, it's my wedding, my call."

Peeta lays out all of our demands and finalizes the details, promising Plutarch that we would keep in touch as the wedding day approaches. Hanging up, he sighs and leans against the wall near the phone, giving me an ingratiating look like I have been an unruly child.

"He's the devil," I snap, crossing my arms in a huff and refusing to look at him. "Why did you have to agree with him?"

"Because he's right," Peeta reasons. "As much as you may hate it, we owe them our lives. We owe Panem their devotion and if all they want is to see us say a few words and seal our marriage with a kiss, than why not? There's no harm in it as long as Plutarch keeps up his end of the deal. Nothing's changed, Katniss. Just one little camera in the crowd of people we care about, all there to support us."

I know that he is right and refrain from turning away in annoyance when he takes the chair next to me and pulls me into his arms.

"I don't care who is watching, I'll only be looking at you."

The comment receives the desired reaction he is waiting for as I roll my eyes, unable to hold back a short laugh. Peeta can be such a sappy romantic sometimes, but I can't deny that I love it and repay the courtesy with a kiss, curling up against his shoulder with a sigh.

"I guess I can handle one little camera," I relent.

"Yeah, and now that it's going to be televised you can break the news to Effie and put her to work planning the ceremony. You're off the hook."

"Effie," I groan, joining in Peeta's amusement. "Fine, but she's definitely not staying here for the duration."

"We'll bunk her up with Haymitch." He grins with a shrug and we laugh until our sides ache, cozy before the kitchen fire while the wind howls and whips the hard, cold rain against the window panes.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The two days before the wedding is to be held in the center of the Meadow, Effie arrives. Peeta arranges for a car to pick her and my old prep team up from the station after their train pulls in. I see it pull up out front while I try and enjoy a last cup of solitary tea before the onslaught. The idea of what the next few days will consist of makes me tired, but I can't help feeling a pang of affection at the sight of the whole lot of them. Perhaps our relationships were derived from something sinister, but even that couldn't darken my memories of flighty gossip over heavy makeup applied on so many "big, big, big days!"

Flavius is the first in the door and has me in an awkwardly flamboyant embrace before thrusting me aside and searching for a place to dump his load of hair supplies. Octavia actually squeals at the sight of me and Venia breaks into tears. Effie immediately takes control of the situation by assigning tasks and dividing my home into stations for varying tasks for my wedding preparations. Her usual clipboard is in hand and I believe she checks her watch three times in the first five minutes of their arrival.

"So good to see you, dear. The train ride was atrocious, in case you were wondering."

"Hello, Effie," I accept her prim peck on the cheek and stand out of her way as she pushes through the kitchen to the front parlor calling out orders and making herself at home.

"No, not there, you nincompoop, upstairs!" she flies at Flavius and smacks him with her clipboard before he can drape a set of long flowing cloth in rich, gaudy gold over the back of the couch. "Hang them up in Katniss's closest before they wrinkle."

"What are those, Effie?" I ask dubiously. "Not dresses I hope, because—"

"No, no," she interrupts, "they're for the decorations."

"Oh." I feel no less reassured hearing this but let it go for now.

"Katniss!" Venia calls back down the stairs for my attention. "Where would you like me to set up the buffer?"

The mention of a "buffer" brings images of pain and sensitivity, and I can only fall back into my chair with a heavy sigh and swallow the rest of my cold tea with loathsome thoughts directed toward Plutarch. Thankfully Peeta arrives shortly after, dragging a reluctant Haymitch along to offer their services wherever needed and, since I am the bride, I am allowed to sit there and do little more than direct traffic while suppressing the desire to run and hide. By nightfall my temples pound with stress pains, and I insist my prep team and wedding coordinator take over my house. Giving them permission to make use of what beds they can find, I slip out with Peeta, finding much needed relief in the quiet of his bed.

Mother arrives from District 4 the next day with her friend and fellow healer, Raul Twill. He is a quiet man, well suited with a perpetual bedside manner and a soft smile that I find encouraging despite his claim on my mother with his ever present hand on the small of her back. We set him up with in the spare room at Peeta's and get Mom settled at Greasy Sae's before taking a walk through the Meadow to show her what has been done with the preparations so far.

Effie and Haymitch are already there arguing over the placement of the trellis where Peeta and I will take our vows. Poles have been erected at measured lengths in a large circle and hung with trailing vines and a single lantern apiece. The guests are to be ushered in to stand and view our joining in marriage around the trellis at the center of the ring. Bouquets of every color and species of wildflower are being gathered and placed across the trellis and around the circle.

"You wanted all this?" My mother takes it all in, amazed at all of the workers busily milling about taking direction from ever-present Effie.

"Well," I try not to sound ungrateful. "It could be worse."

And if someone doesn't interfere, it will be, as Effie is trying to recruit Villagers to capture live mockingjays from the woods and somehow perch them on the tops of each pole in time for the ceremony the next day. I put my foot down on this, with Peeta backing me up, but it's not this which upsets me most.

Over a harried dinner in a crowded kitchen I attempt to keep my heavy eyes from closing. It has been a long day, and I want nothing more than to pull Peeta away from our energetic guests and go to sleep, but Effie has me trapped. Going over the schedule for the hundredth time, she checks every detail and insists I sign off on everything.

"You'll arrive in the Meadow at precisely one fifty-five. All guests will be in their places, Peeta ready and waiting under the trellis. Haymitch—" she looks over at where he sits slumped in his chair unconscious, gripping a half empty bottle and snoring into his shirt. "Haymitch!"

He jumps when she hits him and drops his liquor, cussing and growling before falling back to sleep again.

"Well," Effie sniffs her disdain. "I'll make sure he's in line tomorrow, don't you worry."

I am not worried in the least, just tired.

"The ceremony will begin at two o'clock sharp," she drones on. "By two-thirty the caterers will move in…everyone will be offered the first course by three. Then a slight break for a quick costume change before a recorded message from the married couple to the people watching at home."

This had not set well with me the first time I heard it, but I was beaten down again and resigned to do it as long as Peeta did all the talking.

"The second course of the meal will be served at five followed by dessert where the toasts will be made. Then the food and tables will be cleared from the lawn, cue the musicians and the ball will commence at sunset. That leaves plenty of time to kick back and enjoy yourselves before the midnight train leaves for your honeymoon tour."

"Honeymoon?" I am awake again now. "What honeymoon, what tour?" I look at Peeta for an explanation but he looks as lost as I am.

Effie also appears confused, taken aback by our surprise. She fumbles with her clipboard, bright purple curls dancing in agitation.

"What honeymoon tour, Effie?" Peeta grows a bit short with her delayed response.

"Well," she attempts a frail laugh, "surely Plutarch told you."

Plutarch…of course. If only he was in reach so that I might kindly deck him, forgetting his worthless threats and dirty blackmail. "It's not going to happen, Effie," I inform her heatedly. "We aren't going on a honeymoon. We were planning on staying here, alone."

I look at Peeta for reassurance but his head is down, resting on his hand which covers his exhausted expression. His defeated expression. He knows as well as I do we will be on that train at midnight, but I'm not willing to let it go without a fight.

"But you have to," Effie is saying. "The people of Panem are expecting you to show. They made the announcement at the same time as your wedding, so they could all prepare for your arrival."

"Prepare for what?" Peeta asks, sounding muffled behind his hands. "Prepare for what, Effie?" He looks up and waits for the inevitable.

"Well, for the welcome feasts of course."

Peeta can only groan and disappear behind his hands again. I shoot daggers at Effie and began formulating a plan for finding Plutarch in his sleep and sewing his overly-large lips to his knees.

"Just a dinner!" Effie tries to smooth things over. "The rest of the time is all yours, I promise! You can tour the towns, see the sights, do whatever young lovers do on their honeymoon." She gushes now, dreaming of the romance of it all. "What more could you ask for?"

"Peace," I mutter briskly, "peace, quiet, and no schedules to keep. Is that too much?"

"Apparently," Peeta replies, matching my tone and sealing our fate.

I wake up just before dawn the day of the wedding and lie still, listening to the steady rhythm of Peeta's breathing and wondering what has awoken me. I hadn't been dreaming, at least not anything significant, and I should have been exhausted after lying awake for hours fuming over Plutarch's nasty trick. I roll over in the gray-blue light before the sunrise and close my eyes, hoping for more sleep but none comes.

My stomach is uneasy and I hope I'm not coming down with something. There is no room in Effie's schedule for the flu. The wedding, I think. That is what has me awake so early and feeling the effects of the nerves. What's wrong with me? I shouldn't have any qualms about marrying Peeta. I don't.

Opening my eyes and staring through the gloom at the outline of his features, so peaceful and youthful while he sleeps, I know that's not the case. The idea of being his wife is wrapped up with a feeling of security and a gratitude that stems from knowing all that we had to go through to get to this point. We are survivors, and even the unknowns of marital life won't defeat us.

Then what am I afraid of?

Maybe it isn't fear. Maybe this is the unfamiliar feeling of agitation associated with excitement. It isn't like me to be giddy. Other girls are on their wedding days. Other girls are at other girl's weddings. Just look at Venia and Ocatvia. I just never thought I would be, not for a silly ceremony, playing dress up in front of a crowd of intoxicated well-wishers and family. I had been through enough frivolities to know how tiresome they could be. And yet, here I am wide awake and anxious to get things started. Part of me is even excited to see the final product when my prep team is done with me.

Peeta's bedroom window is open, letting in a slight chill off of the dew dripping branches of the tree outside. Snuggling deeper beneath the bedding, I stick my nose out and sniff the air. It is going to be a beautiful day. Good, now Effie can stop worry about the conditions and annoy us with other pointless details instead.

I hear the trill of a mockingjay hidden somewhere among the branches out of sight, and I take that as a good omen as well. Forming my lips, I whistle Rue's short tune and wait for a response. The bird falls silent, listening. I repeat the simple notes and hear the immediate and perfect reply playing over and over as if on a recording.

The lyrical bird call brings Peeta out of his sleep and he blinks, looking around for the sound before realizing I am awake beside him. "Hey."

"Hey," I smile, watching him stretch and rub the sleep from his eyes. "Sorry if I woke you."

"What time is it?"

"Early."

Peeta glances at the clock before rolling onto his side and reaching and drawing me in close, curling up with a sigh. "We have all day then."

"You maybe," I scoff. "I'm surprised Effie hasn't come knocking yet to drag me off for my spit and shine."

"I won't let her take you," Peeta mumbles, already falling back to sleep.

"She won't give you a choice." I don't know what it is about the characteristics of the Capitol bred, but it made them convincingly manipulative to the point of annoyance. Generations of getting what they want on demand has made them an exasperating sort of friend to be acquainted with. I think of Plutarch again and grow hot with contempt. Maybe it is a good thing I woke so early. I need to enjoy every moment of the day that I can. The honeymoon might begin at midnight, but it won't be a holiday of pleasure and relaxation.

It isn't Effie who comes to find me shortly after sunrise, but my mother. I have the feeling that she didn't get much sleep the night before either and was given the task of rounding me up on my big, big, big day. I am also sure that I am not the only one she seeks to find at Peeta's house so early. Healer Twill is up and dressed in the kitchen when I step downstairs and the four of us sit down for a quick but quiet breakfast before I have to rush off.

Too distracted to talk, I nibble on toast and sip a little tea while listening to Mom and Raul talk of their work at the hospitals around Panem. Peeta asks just the right questions to keep them talking, but I can tell his mind isn't on the advances of healing either. His eyes dart toward the clock on the wall every so often and I wonder what he will do all morning to keep himself busy. At least I have the distraction of my team to keep from being driven insane.

When the time comes, Mom walks with me back to my house and we take our time, soaking in the warmth of the early sun. She tucks her arm through mine with a sigh and I look at her in surprise. I don't expect much sentiment from her and feel a little guilty for not being the first to reach out for an embrace. I had hardly even spoken to her since she had arrived. Nothing aside from the usual small-talk; I just don't have much to say.

"I would be worried about you if I didn't see it," she says suddenly before we can reach the door.

"See what?"

"The way you look at him." She says it softly with an experienced, knowing look that isn't condescending. "The way you rely on him unlike anyone else," she continues. "I have never seen you need anybody, always so self-reliant and strong…unlike me."

My mother is strong, I almost argue, but we are almost home and she stops, turning with her cool hands on my shoulders looking at me with a sad smile.

"The only person I have ever seen you lean on for strength is your father. It's my fault that you couldn't trust anyone else." She shakes her head before I can correct her, and we both know she is right so I don't press, remaining quiet and letting her finish. It could be the only opportunity for us to speak alone and she doesn't want to miss it. "I feared that maybe this was all just the plan of the Capitol being carried out. With the broadcast and the honeymoon…"

"Yeah, well that wasn't originally part of the plan," I roll my eyes.

Mom passes me another small smile and nods. "I guessed as much last night with your conversation with Effie. But it wasn't that which convinced me that you really are doing this for you, and not the Capitol."

I am not sure what she is referring too and my face says as much.

"It's watching you with him, the way you allow him to take care of you. It seems so natural. It's the way your father use to take care of me. You may not believe it, Katniss," Mom drops her gaze as if embarrassed. "But before I married I was quite independent. I never thought I needed anybody, that I could do everything all my own."

I do believe it. I had seen glimpses of that woman when my mother was in the middle of caring for a serious trauma before and during the war. It is a power I never knew she possessed until recently.

"Love can make you change," she concludes, no longer thinking of me, her eyes full of memories I'll never know. "Change for the better."

I don't know that I agree that becoming dependent on someone else is a change for the better, but I think I understand what she is trying to say. In all that, she is glad that I'm not marrying Peeta because all of Panem thinks that we already are, or for some political campaign to keep up the spirits of the populous. She has always known that tough decisions don't come easy for me. But I think I have proven that when it comes down to it, I don't let anyone dictate my life plan.

"Well," Mom breaks out of her reverie and plasters on a convincing smile. "We better not keep your team waiting any longer." Reaching out and fixing my braid over my shoulder, she awkwardly caresses it, looking slightly dazed. "You will make a beautiful bride," she assures me. "Just don't let them change you too much, not even for the cameras."

"I won't," I tell her, holding back a moment while she leads the way inside. It is the deepest conversation I have had with her in a long time, longer than I can remember.

Under Effie's infallible direction, the wedding goes off without a hitch. Before I even make an appearance on the Meadow lawn I am dizzy with the onslaught of greetings and congratulations with each new arriving guest. Pollux and Cressida show up just as I'm slipping into my dress, a simple yellow silk which flows gracefully to my bare toes like a rippling wave. Venia thinks I should wear shoes, pulling out a pair of gaudy, strappy heals covered in rhinestones, but I remind her kindly that my attire is all my decision and I prefer to go barefoot. The Meadow is full of pits and tufts of grass and I am klutzy enough in heels even on the smoothest ground. We settle with her applying some glittering bright orange nail polish to my toes and sparkling gold bangles to each of my ankles.

For my jewelry I choose a single piece, the gold mockingjay locket from Peeta. With this hanging from my neck my father and Prim can be with me today, just like my mother.

"We'll be ready with the camera as soon as you step out, Katniss," Cressida informs me. "We have set up stationary lenses around the circle in the Meadow but will only be using Pollux's single portable between the house and the ceremony grounds. As usual, just act like we don't exist and leave everything up to me."

I nod and attempt to smile while Octavia fusses with my dress and hair. Flavius has already worked his magic, creating a more elegant and sophisticated version of my trademark braid amid loose, flowing curls that cascade around my done up face. I give my okay on the makeup and get Mom's nod of approval. Nothing too overdone or sexy, they managed to make me look like a polished version of myself but also without looking like a lost, frightened child.

Flavius has already left us to make sure that Peeta and Haymitch looked presentable, but even the loss of his presence couldn't lessen the crowded feeling of my kitchen with everyone scrambling around me with last minute suggestions and exclamations on how I look.

At ten minutes to two, Effie reappears and orders everyone to stop what they are doing; it is time for me to go to the Meadow. Pollux checks his camera and steps outside with Cressida to film me walking out with my mother. Octavia and Venia cling to each other and share tissues with teary eyes and Effie practically shoves me out the door into the searing sunlight. I am thankful for the steady breeze that takes the edge off the heat, though regret my choice of dress, feeling like an extension of the sun in all that glaring yellow.

The Village seems deserted with everyone up at the Meadow waiting for me to arrive. We travel in a small pack, Mom at my elbow helping me not to soil the hem of the dress on the dry gravel path. My prep team follows from behind, talking animatedly and continuously exclaiming on the fine weather ordered just for the wedding and how stunning I look in my dress. I don't feel stunning, just slightly sick and anxious to get this whole thing over with before I trip and make a fool of myself. Then all I have to do is spit out my vows in front of everybody without my breakfast coming back up all over my silk front.

Haymitch is waiting for us at the edge of the meadow and Mom releases me to find a place to watch the ceremony with my prep team. Haymitch and I are left with just the camera operators and Effie who waits to give us our cue to walk in. There is music from musicians I can't see through the crowd of people clustered within the circle of decorative poles. All eyes are on us and I release a shaking breath, willing my knees not to buckle.

"There's always time to run, sweetheart," Haymitch gets me to smile, holding out his arm for me to take and, with Effie's prompting, we move forward. Slowly advancing through an opening in the line of waiting guests, he leads me to the center of the ring. Several people grin and nod as we walk by; some even venture a wave and offer their whispered congratulations. I hear several awed female voices exclaim over my dress and find myself blushing; fighting back a grin that I am sure would look foolish on camera.

And then I see him, locking eyes with his dazzling blue irises where he stands underneath the bloom covered trellis. Peeta looks amazing in his comfortable but well-fitting attire of light cotton button down shirt and black pants. A small cluster of primroses and bright yellow dandelions is pinned as a corsage to his shirt and his blonde curls fall carelessly across his forehead. No longer able to control the smile on my face I have to drop my eyes so as not to trip as I step up and take my place beside him under the trellis. Peeta's own eyes take in the full effect of my transformation and my nervousness increases under his attention.

Haymitch takes a moment to greet everyone and announce our joining in marriage, stepping into the circle of on-lookers so that we may begin our vows. Though we never really discussed in great detail what we would say, it is understood that Peeta is to go first, giving me time to collect myself before it is my turn. Reaching for my hands, he takes both of them in his and faces me directly. Squeezing them encouragingly, he waits for me to look up and catch his eyes before beginning with a characteristic smile.

"Katniss Everdeen," he speaks loud enough for everyone to hear and I wonder at his composure, his unfailing ability to keep every individual's attention with every word he speaks. Within seconds I am lost in his candid phrasing and forget that anyone else is even there. "The first time I heard you sing was the first time I loved you. It is no secret to anyone in Panem that my feelings have only grown because of what we have endured together. I owe my life to you a thousand times over. I have never known anyone so brave, so courageous, or so headstrong." This last attribute generates a small ripple of humor through the crowd, and I can't deny it. Peeta waits until all is still once again and continues. "I've told you many times before that you have this effect on people…this way about you that gets a response like none other. Your beauty is fierce, your drive intense, and I feel twice the man I am when I stand next to you.

"Out of every medical marvel or known psychological influence offered to me, your voice was the only thing that could bring me back from the darkest recesses of hell. It was what made me fall in love with you in the first place, and served to reignite a flame a second time when poison had doused it out. I love you, Katniss Everdeen, and I am honored that you have chosen me to love in return." As a seal to his words of devotion, Peeta reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring, presenting it on my finger with ease. I recognize it right away as the one he found in the lake the day of our picnic. The gold has been polished to a gleaming shine and in the once empty setting sits the pearl, secure and dazzling under the sun. The pearl I never knew was even missing from my bedside table at home. My breath catches in alarm, and I hold up my finger for a better look, not sure how to react in front of all those people. It is brilliant; more than brilliant…it is perfect.

There are a few murmurs of appreciation from the enraptured audience and even a little sporadic applause before all is hushed and they wait on me. I know I must speak, but my voice is trapped. Not from stage fright, but from the emotions welling up unexpectedly in my throat. What could I say now to get all these people, all of Panem, to understand that I am not as great as Peeta makes me out to be? If I am anything admirable it is because he makes me so. So I have an effect on people, so what? Peeta…Peeta creates the effect.

Somehow in my whirl of thoughts I realize that the crowd is whispering, wondering what is taking me so long and why I don't speak. Peeta doesn't seem moved by my inadequacies. He continues to hold my gaze and my trembling hands as if keeping me steady with his will. I swallow with difficulty and attempt to speak, the words coming out sounding weak and barely audible compared to his dynamic speech.

"Peeta…" it's all I can say before tears well up in my eyes and cause the scene of sun, flowers, and those understanding blue eyes to swim. "Peeta, I…I know you think I'm strong, that everyone does…but I'm not. You say I'm brave and daring, but I'm really weak. Maybe I can sing like the mockingjay and survive like the mockingjay, but like any bird I always want to fly. So many times I have wanted to run away when I'm afraid, but it's you that has kept me grounded. I'm not amazing, Peeta, far from it. I'm selfish." It's my turn to tighten my grip on his hands to ensure he's looking right at me, hearing the desperate honesty in my words.

"I am. I've always been selfish. Every time I thought I was going to lose you, thought I had, I fought to save you because I can't stand the thought of living without you. Without you I'm lost," I choke on a sob and blink away the tears. Who cares about the cameras, I can't stop them now. I remember my mother's words that morning and understand that faraway look that had come to her eyes. For the first time, I understand why she couldn't function after my father died, it all makes sense like never before. "I can't breathe without you breathing next to me. I have never needed anyone the way that I need you. I love you, Peeta Mellark, and to be able to say that I'm your wife…the honor is mine."

The applause comes from the entire crowd this time and rings on and on for what seems like forever, echoing off the hills and filling the Meadow with a thousand chimes. I break out into a relieved smile when Peeta reaches up and wipes the tears from my flushed cheeks and the audience reacts with renewed cheers. From somewhere behind me Haymitch whistles shrilly.

"Kiss her, you fool!"

Peeta willingly does as he is told with such intensity that I have to cling to him for dear life or fear falling out of his arms. The applause goes on and on and I hate to break away. The moment is too perfect and I don't want to end it just yet, afraid it won't last. But why shouldn't it? I wonder logically, pulling away and sharing a secret laugh with Peeta before our guests converge with embraces of congratulations. What is to keep us from being this happy forever? I am his now, and have no desire to fly away.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The wedding reception is far different than all those social events at the Capitol. These are my friends and neighbors and, though my face hurts from smiling so much, I am happy to greet them all and take my time talking and laughing with each face beaming back at me. Peeta and I barely leave each other's side until my mother pulls me away to meet up with Hazelle and the kids who are unable to stay long and will be catching the first train out of District 12. I hadn't seen them at all during the ceremony and am anxious to do so. It doesn't fail to cross my mind that I hadn't seen Gale either.

I hug Hazelle and each of the children in turn, thanking them for making the trip and asking how things are in District 2. Hazelle smiles bravely, but I can tell that the horrors of the recent hospital bombing are still fresh in her memory and don't press for more. "How does Gale like his job?" I ask instead.

"Oh!" she appears slightly surprised, looking around as if having lost something. "You should ask him yourself. Posy, go find your brother, he was just here."

My heart skips a beat at this turn. How do I not know he is here sooner? Someone should have told me.

Posy doesn't have far to go to find him as Gale appears at the edge of the Meadow, returning from the woods where he apparently has been walking alone. Hazelle calls him over and I stand awkwardly, my wedding dress fluttering in the breeze as he approaches. I don't know how I am supposed to feel seeing him again after all this time but don't expect to feel as empty as I do. Not regretful or even confused. I guess I feel distant, like seeing someone I knew from a long time ago but have no connection to anymore. And if anything, it makes me sad.

"Hello, Gale."

"Hello, Katniss," he nods with a pleasant but disengaged smile.

"I'm glad you came," I say honestly and he meets my eye for the first time, hesitating a moment to read what is written there before nodding once again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

"Katniss," Peeta appears at my shoulder and gets my attention. "Effie is looking for us for that clip for the broadcast." He stops and notices who I am talking to and steps back respectively. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," Gale assures him. "We were just saying goodbye. Have to make that first train in a minute."

Peeta nods and waits while I receive another round of hugs from the Hawthornes. Gale's embrace is brief but I understand it to mean a goodbye far beyond simply bodily absence.

"Take care," I tell him softly before stepping away.

"You too." Gale reaches out a hand of goodwill for Peeta to shake next. "Stop and see us when you're in 2. My mother will make you dinner."

"Certainly," Hazelle agrees wholeheartedly. "Come any time."

We depart with more promises to keep in touch, and I wave to the kids as they head across the Meadow toward the station.

"That's too bad they couldn't stay longer," Peeta voices, watching them go.

"Yeah…" I respond vaguely, knowing that they could have, if they really wanted to. Breathing in a deep, refreshing breath of mountain air, I realize it is just one more change in my ever evolving life. The absence of pieces of the past, it is something I am slowly growing accustom to.

The rest of the festivities go on without a hitch. Everyone eats their fill and then eat some more. Conversations rise and fall with jovial tones and, as the lanterns are lit at nightfall, the musicians take their places and the first dance of the evening belongs to us. Under a purple sky springing to life with brilliant stars, Peeta and I dance in a world of our own. Exhausted and relieved that it is over, we agree that we couldn't have planned a better wedding if we had insisted on doing it all ourselves. The only thing that could have made it better would have been to end the day by slipping away and spending the night in the secluded cabin by the lake. With nothing but a roaring fire, a soft blanket, and each other to keep us warm.

But even if that isn't to be, we at least still have the night and a rowdy crowd of Villagers eager to twist the corks off of several more bottles of wine and dance under the moon to an endless series of lively tunes. I thought I would tire long before midnight but am surprised when Effie suddenly breaks into our circle of dancers to inform me that we need to hurry before we miss our train.

Peeta and I leave hand in hand amid the calls and best-wishes of all of District 12. The Village itself sounds like an empty ghost town after leaving the merriment of the Meadow. My mother and Twill are waiting outside my house when we return for our luggage and one last goodbye.

"I'll stay until everyone is gone to make sure that everything gets locked up and secure," Mom assures me with a quick hug.

"Leave a window open for Buttercup and a key for Greasy Sae," I remind her unnecessarily.

Mom nods, handing me my suitcase and travel bag. "I will see you when you reach 4. Be safe."

"Thanks, Mom." I try to get her to understand with my eyes just how thankful I am for her, but don't know how well it comes across. I am just never any good at saying how I feel.

"Go," she waves me off with a soft smile, and I think maybe I succeed for once.

Peeta shakes Twill's hand and receives a hug from my mother while she warns him to take good care of me. Peeta has the good grace not to laugh, promising her he will before taking my hand to lead the way to the car where Effie waits.

"Are you coming with us, Effie?" I ask, trying not to sound appalled by the idea.

"Oh, goodness sakes no," she laughs, seeming please as if I had asked if she might with hopes that she would. "No, no, I'm just making sure you get on okay. Then it'll be back to the house to organize for tomorrow's departure! Don't worry though, dear. I'm sure I will see you again before the honeymoon is up, no qualms about that."

"No, not at all," Peeta holds back a laugh, and I have to turn into his shoulder to hide my own amusement.

Without a minute to spare we board the train and leave the station, waving to Effie before flying off into the night, bound for District 13. Out of all the places I could have wished to wake up on the day after my wedding, this is the last I would have chosen. But as Peeta quickly reminds me after settling into our shared compartment suite near the end of the train, it doesn't matter where we are, as long as we're together.

Slipping out of my dress before his eager eyes, I drop it to the floor at my feet and climb onto the bed, into his waiting arms. Our passionate rhythm matches the fluid motion of the train and I feel like we are the only two people in the all of Panem, gliding down a never ending track built just for us. What would they do if we just never got off? Pass by each District without stopping or showing our faces?

I suggest this means of rebellion to Peeta, snuggling among the pillows while we catch our breath. Shadows dance on the walls of the compartment as the moon projects the landscape through the open window and makes me dizzy, forcing me to close my eyes until the feeling passes. Peeta finds a cart supplied with fresh fruit, rolls, and a cold pitcher of juice outside our door and pulls it into the room, serving us a late night snack in bed. He finds my idea tempting but highly improbable seeing how a no-show on our part would result in an uncomfortable visit from Plutarch.

"That's a meeting I would rather avoid on my honeymoon, thank you very much," he mutters through a mouth full of bread.

"I wouldn't mind," I say sardonically. "It would give me an excuse to hurt him."

"Now, now, darling," Peeta meets my tone. "No need to be inhospitable, the man did just throw us one fantastic wedding."

"Ha!" I'm not so gracious and don't ever intend on being so. "We planned that wedding. If anyone helped it was Effie, and it would have been just as wonderful without his cameras and cut-away commentary."

"It was wonderful, wasn't it?" Peeta recalls thoughtfully and I stop complaining, matching his gaze and trading my contempt for an agreeable smile. Settling back in beside him, I help myself to the rest of his roll and feel myself getting drowsy with contentment.

"Well," I yawn openly. "I just hope they don't expect an early showing at the station. I'm not moving until noon at least."

"All the more reason to have left Effie behind," Peeta agrees, and I don't know for sure, but I think he falls asleep even faster than I do.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The Capitol has a camera team waiting for us when we step off the train in District 13. No interviews, just footage shot of us being greeted by the military-like personnel who continue to run the compound even now after the war is over. That is all that is really left of the population. Those who sought refuge here during the rebellion have all returned home or to other Districts of their choosing. Some of the civilians who had thought of 13 as home have also left, looking for a less stringent lifestyle now that they have the freedom to travel. The compound is now strictly used for defensive training and creative war strategy, teaching young, new recruits how to properly defend Panem from future rebellions or procedures needed for success in rescue missions baring a natural disaster.

There are many new faces and changes in command since we were last here and as we are led into the lower offices of the compound I give up trying to keep them all straight. The head commander is an alarmingly tall woman with perfect posture and blonde-white, close cropped hair. I am used to brisk personalities and a sense of order with these people, but she seems oddly jovial for someone in charge of an army of over two-thousand volunteers. Introducing herself as General Coal, she warmly shakes both Peeta's and my hands and offers us a cup of tea in her personal office before we commence with the tour of the newly organized facilities.

"We are honored to have both of you here," she pours out the tea herself and hands us each a cup. "Congratulations on your recent marriage. It is nice to see something good come out of those horrific Hunger Games."

"Thank you," Peeta responds, and I nod, having just taken a scaling sip of my beverage and finding myself unable to give a proper reply. "We're glad to be here."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Coal says bluntly. "When Heavensbee called and told me you were coming I laughed in the man's face, to be honest. What couple, in their right mind, would want to visit a military base on their honeymoon? I thought the man was mad and his reasoning unsound. I'm surprised you agreed to it."

"So was I," I can't help but mutter into my cup, receiving a look from Peeta, but Coal only laughs a startling guffaw.

"That's more like it!" Slapping the top of her desk, she spills half her tea over some important looking papers, completely unabashed and leaving it to soak without much care. "Well you're here and we'll all try to make do despite the discomfort, shall we? Now, I believe a tour is mandatory with that blasted, willy-nilly excuse for a camera team lurking in the hall, am I correct?"

Coal gives neither of us time to answer, taking for granted that we are finished with the tea that has barely begun to cool and stands to lead us out once again. "Might as well get it out of the way, eh? Afterwards, if you would humor an old woman, Mrs. Mellark, I would enjoy a friendly competition with bow and arrow out on the grounds."

This woman has not ceased in surprising me from the moment we stepped off the train, and I stammer out a reply that I would be honored to out-shoot her whenever she pleased.

Returning with another boisterous laugh, she slaps me roughly on the shoulder and calls it done. Peeta may join us if he likes, otherwise he is given free range of the compound to do what he wishes.

"Archery is always a thrill," he smiles, "but I'll leave that up to you two."

"Suite yourself," Coal is in no way offended, barking her next orders at the camera crew to get a move on, we don't have all day. They all jump to life when she appears with a rapid opening of her office door, all looking alarmed and not sure what to think of this woman. I don't know either, but I do know she is a fine upgrade to Commander Coin, and I am not going to complain.

The tour is as quick and efficient as Coal can make it and the film crew is sent off as soon as it is completed. Peeta excuses himself to return to the experimental weapons department where we had been given a brief overview of some state-of-the-art devices the engineers had been working on recently. Coal and I pick out a couple of high-tech bows and a bundle of arrows a piece. Taking the first elevator to ground level, we leave the barbed-wire fencing behind for the hills and trees surrounding the base.

"Tell me, Katniss," the General inquires as we set up to take a few shots at some targets set among the forest growth. "What do you think about this terrorist attack in 2?"

"Oh," I am once again taken aback by her directness. "I was horrified to hear of it, of course."

"Yes, but what are your conclusions?" Coal isn't moved by sentiment and isn't referring to the obvious devastation of losing so many innocent lives. "I know how hard Plutarch and Coin tried to make you out to be a brainless puppet toting a toy bow, but I can see through that as well as the next fool."

I don't have any idea of how to respond to this and merely stand there, arrow set and waiting. Coal lets one fly and shows her modest abilities and precision with a bow. She is also waiting for me to speak and when I don't, stops and turns before taking up another arrow.

"I'm from District 2, did you know that?"

"No, ma'am," I know absolutely nothing about this woman and don't pretend to.

"Or that I was a Peacekeeper before the rebellion?"

This is even more surprising and my expression reveals as much.

Coal nods and takes another shot while I ready my bow and follow suit. "Good shot," she approves and carries on with her personal background commentary without stopping. "Yes, I worked for thirty years in the Capitol, sometimes transferring to other Districts when ordered. But originally I'm from 2 and often returned there on special duty. I was there the day they collapsed the mountain fortress."

I look at her this time in…what? Shame? I'm not sure how to feel about this. Sorry, I suppose, though I had little to do with the decision to make the attack on the District 2. She seems to know this and doesn't hold it against me.

"By that time I hadn't been clinging quite so much to my loyalties to the Capitol, believe me. I was no deserter, but it did play uncomfortably on my conscience what was being done to all the people of Panem. I saw that footage of you in 8, the bombing of the make-shift hospital with all those wounded. I know how wars are fought, but that didn't sit right with me. Then you jumped in front of that poor soul with the gun in District 2 and pointed out how pointless all the killing was. That stuck with me for a long time.

"I laid down my arms after that, gave myself up as prisoner to the rebel army and went to work for them in exchange for my life. I might have been imprisoned or even executed after the war if I hadn't surrendered, but that wasn't why I did it."

We have both stopped our shooting now and stand with idle bows amid the wind-tossed pine trees, forgetting about the archery exercise.

"I didn't want to fight for a dictator who thought it was okay to sacrifice children for entertainment anymore. I have never married, never had children of my own. I grew up in a District where we never had to fear that our names would be drawn in the Reaping because, even if they were, we had career tributes to take our place. I always thought I was daring being a part of the Peacekeepers, helping to control the unruly, simple-minded laborers," she sneers with sarcasm at her own description, shaking her head at what had once been her idea of normalcy.

"But I have never really known daring until I saw you stand in front of all of Panem and face down that armed and desperate man." Coal meets my eye and keeps it with a steady gaze that I don't break, understanding and simultaneously forgiving her for something she couldn't help, of being a fortunate of District 2 while I am a mere laborer from 12.

I nod shortly, conveying that all is forgotten, that the war is over and we were in a different place, a different time now.

Coal returns the nod, picking up her bow once again. "I must have been convincing, because I was pardoned, given a place in the ranks and promoted until here I am, masquerading as a General of all things. I will thank you kindly for not blowing my cover and revealing to any one of these toy soldiers who follow my leadership that I really am nothing more than a sappy old woman with a conscience."

"You've got my word, General," I smile, shooting her arrow out of the sky seconds after she lets it fly. "As long as you promise not to tell anyone that Panem's beloved Mockingjay is really just a common sparrow with superiority complex."

"We have an understanding then, Ms. Everdeen."

"Mellark," I remind her. "Mrs. Mellark."

We are treated to one of the finest meals we have ever had in District 13 shortly after our return to the complex. Although it is still served in the same clinically clean cafeteria, the menu has greatly improved under General Coal's stewardship. Peeta and I have a wonderful time eating with the smartly dressed soldiers, all in muddy brown cargo trousers and well-fitting forest green cotton t-shirts. They have all been issued dog-tags with an identification number and clunk around in heavy leather boots that make many of them seem more commanding than they really are.

Though there is still a strict disciplinary code of conduct, it is easy to see that life here in 13 is not a somber affair. Plenty of jokes are tossed around the mess hall tables, some rather off-color, and the General is more often than not the first to supply the punch-line.

Peeta and I return to our suite on the train after dinner to enjoy the rest of the evening by ourselves. Both of us agree that maybe this trip isn't a complete waste after all. I will never admit it to Plutarch, but I am thankful for the opportunity to have met General Coal. And, climbing into our cozy bed that night, I am actually excited to awake early to join her for a brisk hunt at dawn.

The entire morning of the second day of our honeymoon could be set down as successful, to be honest. After my hunt with Coal, Peeta finds us for a hefty breakfast before we spend the morning sitting in on a strategy session with several members of the General's intelligence staff. They discuss undercover operations in an attempt to shake down and destroy the PRF before they can do any more damage to the Districts. Coal ignores standard protocol to allow us to sit in, wanting to know our thoughts on the subject.

I don't know what we can really contribute, since they themselves are having trouble pinning down the rebels in any certain location. Until they can, there is no real strategy to take them out. Rumors fly in every day from undercover operatives stationed throughout Panem, but nothing that holds any water. The PRF are keeping a low profile, moving in stealth mode, and never remaining anywhere long. Any scent of a trail that is picked up immediately goes stale with disappointing results.

"Is it known how they are traveling from place to place?" Peeta wants to know.

"Not entirely," Coal answers as best she can. "Since we don't in fact know how many there are, we are unable to even calculate an adequate guess as to their mode of transportation. We know only that they have no access to the railroads, as they are heavily monitored and no trains have been hijacked or misplaced."

_That's good_, I think sarcastically. They may have missed the production of bombs in District 2, but at least they are still able to keep track of giant, speeding trains each ten miles long.

"We are almost certain that everything they do is on foot, passing through the roughest parts of each District and hiding out far from main centers of civilization. It may also be, though we can't confirm it as of yet, that they have one, or possibly two, hovercrafts at their disposal."

"How do you know?" Peeta continues to inquire.

"Again," Coal repeats, "we can't confirm it, but there have been a few sightings, one in District 5, and two in 11, of an unidentified flying object showing its lights briefly on three separate nights. The areas where these sightings took place were thoroughly searched, but nothing was found."

It is disheartening to hear that a small rabble of unknown rebels could hide right in our midst and go unchallenged by Panem's entire military. Granted we just got out of a very trying war. Things aren't as they should be yet and new leaders are still trying to accustom themselves to a new way of governing. But surely there has to be a better way of flushing them out before it is too late.

Too late comes much sooner than any of us expect. Just as we are preparing to say goodbye to General Coal and District 13 to move on to our next stop on our tour, a stern faced soldier interrupts our departing words to inform Coal that she is needed immediately. There has been another bombing attack; the hospital in District 4 has been completely leveled.

I hear the words but they don't sink in at first. It is like the world has stopped revolving and every living thing forced to cease breathing. The hospital…in 4. My mother's hospital.

"Katniss," Peeta is trying to get my attention but I don't hear him. "Katniss!" he shakes me slightly, forcing me to look at him. "You don't know she was there, Kat—listen! She wasn't there. She stayed behind to help after the wedding in 12, remember? There's no way she could have made it back yet. She's not there."

"I have to go," I pull away, realizing that General Coal is gone, rushing to take control of her team and the situation.

"No," Peeta attempts to stop me once again as I rush in one direction than another, forgetting the way out of the compound. I need to get to the train, we have to go now! "We can't, Katniss. There's no point."

"My mother is the point, Peeta!" I snap. I have to know, see for myself. I have to find her. We'll find the conductor of the train; tell him to take us straight to District 4. Forget about honeymoon tours and welcome dinners, forget about Plutarch and his television viewers. "Help me," I turn on Peeta fiercely, begging him to show his support and to understand. I need my husband to understand that I have to find out for sure.

"Okay," he relents, holding onto my arms firmly but gently to transfer some of his calm reserve to my heightened nerves. "We'll go, we'll find her, I promise. But first let's call home. Just to see," he steps over my inevitable argument and squelches it before I can speak. "If she's there, then she'll answer and we'll know, okay?"

"And if she isn't?"

"Then we can speak to Haymitch. Maybe he'll know what time she left and if it's even possible that she made it back."

I can agree to this and we ask the first soldier we come to for access to a phone. Peeta tries my house first but gets no response, and I am ready to run again, taking that as a sure sign that Mom is gone. Peeta clamps a firm hold on my hand and tries Haymitch, cussing under his breath when there is no answer there either.

"It's the middle of the afternoon, where else would he be?"

"Unconscious," I retort, impatient with this obvious failure of a plan.

"Greasy Sae," Peeta jumps at his last chance. "She's always home, always answers, and knows everything." He is right of course, and I am glad that she is so reliable because it confirms that I am right. My mother left District 12 on the last train out the night before and would have returned to 4 sometime this morning. And knowing my mother, she would have gone straight to work the minute she arrived.

"Katniss!" Peeta reacts in alarm as I lose control over my ability to stand, sliding to the floor against the nearest wall before he can more than soften my fall by catching me one handed, releasing the phone without hanging up. "It's okay," he attempts to reclaim that same assurance but fails, as fearful as I am. "We'll go, alright? Right now, come on," he pulls me to my feet, leading me out of the small office where we borrowed the phone and back into the brightly lit, sterile hallway. "If we leave now we can make it by midnight. Let's get on the train."

"No." A voice behind us stops us and we turn to see General Coal. "Forget the train." Her narrow cheekbones are flushed and there is no humor in her eyes now. "Take a hovercraft," she commands. "Get to District 4, Katniss, and hurry."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

We are offered a ride in the General's own personal aircraft. We board quickly behind Coal and her small team of closest advisers, and I secure a seat just after takeoff, chewing my nails in agitation. Peeta sits beside me and tries to be supportive, but looks as anxious as I feel. The inner cab of the craft is abuzz with activity as soldiers prepare for whatever awaits us upon reaching District 4. Coal is in the center of it all, earpiece glued to her head while she barks out orders to those in the air and already on the ground. I want to catch all that they are saying but there is this ringing in my ears that I can't control, a sort of dysfunctional buzz that drives me to distraction and makes it impossible to think of anything but Mom.

How will I even find her when we touch down? Where do I begin to look or who do I ask? I have already attempted to reach her home phone and got no answer. Peeta is quick to point out that it didn't mean anything. Mom could have been home when the blast occurred and is now simply down at ground zero doing what she does best, helping the wounded and tending to any survivors. I try to convince myself that he is right, but it doesn't lower my heart rate or nervous tension.

When Coal appears at my shoulder with a call on a separate transmission earpiece, I jump at the device, sure that it is some news to ease my fears. Hoping to hear my mother's voice on the other end, I am disappointed to hear Plutarch instead. My disappointment soon turns to rage as he presents me with uncalled-for attitude over Peeta's and my abandonment of the honeymoon tour.

"I hope you're not serious," I hiss into the transmitter, feeling the heat rise in my face. "My mother could be dead, blast your tour and your ratings!"

"I understand your conflicting emotions," Plutarch has the audacity to reply. "But your actions are reckless and any deviation in your plans should have been run by the Capitol before—"

"My plans! It was never my plan to have a honeymoon in the first place! It was not my plan to race off to possibly pick up what's left of my mother in a bomb riddled hospital, Plutarch!" Peeta attempts to take the earpiece and intercede again but I stop him with a firm hand, knocking his aside and quickly cluing him in that I have this one handled just fine. "I don't care what the Capitol has to say about it, I don't care what you do to me. Ban me from leaving 12 for life, throw me in prison, execute me if you have to, but not until I find my mother! Goodbye, Plutarch."

Not even bothering to shut the transmitter off, I toss it away, accidently smacking Peeta in the chest with it in my frustration. "Selfish, small-minded…" I trail off in a muttering of foul names directed at Heavensbee and his twisted agenda for the Capitol. Peeta is smart enough to keep quiet and let me fume, but I don't miss his covert attempts to hide a humorous grin and this only serves to irk me further. I spend the rest of the trip speaking to no one and watch the Districts fly by below us, scanning the horizon for the first signs of chaos and carnage.

It isn't hard to miss. I see the tendrils of smoke first, obscuring the glittering hue of the sun touching the sea beyond the edge of the District. Billowing like an ominous vertical cloud, the evidence of destruction appears like a billboard of bloodshed. The passengers of the hovercraft fall silent as we all stand amazed at what we see. And as we approach ever nearer, I can make out a mountain of rubble smoldering like a concrete volcano sunk within a crater of crushed glass and charred lumber. From the air it looks as though the explosive impact destroyed not only the hospital and its neighboring buildings, but every standing structure within a five-mile circumference.

I don't know exactly where my mother's residence lies in relation to the hospital, but have a sinking feeling that even if she wasn't at work at the time of the bombing, she may very well have not escaped its deadly blast. "Peeta…" my voice catches in a strangled breath at the sight of it all and I grasp his hand for support, unable to take my eyes away from the scene.

"I know," he squeezes it in return, sharing my sinking feeling. How will we ever find her in all this?

The hovercraft touches down on the beach in the center of a makeshift command center. Soldiers and volunteer rescue workers scuttle around like busy ants and, despite the urgency, there is an air of order to the turmoil. General Coal doesn't waste time with her men or with us. I am once again grateful for her direct style of management as she snaps orders and draws workers out of thin air who provide us with provisions for our search. There is no mention of organizing a party of guards to lead us into the city, just hasty instructions on the basic layout of the recovery facilities so we can readily decide where to begin first. Coal has no intention on holding us back, or to hold our hand through our efforts. She has seen our abilities and knows that out of anyone on the ground, we can handle ourselves in an arena of unpredictable and dangerous terrain.

We gladly accept emergency packs of provisions, small zippered bags holding a simple first aid kit, flashlight, pocket knife, and two bottles of water a piece. Though it is cool near the shore, I imagine it is smothering farther inward toward the destruction. Shedding my light jacket, I leave it behind in Coal's command center tent, tighten the laces on a pair of combat boots that I borrowed back in 13, and thank the General for her assistance.

"Take care, Mockingjay," she says directly. Whatever laidback version of this woman I was privy to seeing on the archery field is no longer evident in this competent commander with a tough job ahead of her. "Good luck in your search, and if need comes, find us here, on the beach."

I nod and regard her daring far superior to any that she gave me credit for. I wish to tell her so, but leave it for a time better suited for compliments, taking Peeta's hand and turning towards the smoke and rubble in search of Mom.

We decide to take the circuitous route, veering right and hiking counter clockwise around the perimeter of the disaster zone. Fighting through heavy crowds of displaced, haggard looking townspeople, we cut away from the main thoroughfare leading from the town square to the docks where we left General Coal. At first we find most of the homes and businesses virtually untouched. The closer to the beach they are, the busier, as many are being used as makeshift shelters for the homeless and wounded. It takes us several hours, working our way through every one, asking for my mother and scanning each face of both the wounded and the healers. She is among none of them.

Continuing in a northeasterly direction, we weave through less congested streets and begin to find more rubble, more shattered windows, and flying debris still floating down from the sky where they had been sent airborne from the blast. Sheets of paper with charred, smoldering edges, chunks of plaster, powdery residue of concrete which settles like a layer of gray snow over everything. I begin to regret leaving my jacket behind as it would have served well as a mouth covering to keep the grit out of my teeth and lungs.

By sunset, Peeta and I are coughing and gasping for air, exhausted, coated in grime and sweat, and have hardly made any headway. "Let's take a break, Katniss," he insists, pulling me up short and leading us to an alcove doorway of a deserted house. Collapsing just inside, we pull out water and wash out our mouths before sipping frugally. Not for the first time, I realize just how ill prepared we are. No food, no real plan, no hope of finding Mom before dark. At this rate it will take us a week to check every street and every face. And what of the mountain of rubble? What if she is one of those trapped within, how will we ever get to her?

"This is pointless, Peeta," I admit, heart sinking with my own defeat. "She's not here." She won't be in any of the meager shelters with the blurry-eyed fishermen nursing minor cuts and bruises. "We need to go to the heart of the battle," I state, knowing I don't have to explain because Peeta understands.

"Triage," he nods.

"Yes," I should have gone there first and not wasted our time. "If she's alive, she's fighting to keep others alive too." And if she didn't make it…then someone there would know.

"Where will we find it?" Peeta is ready to go.

"At the center," I am sure, "closest to the chaos."

Picking up our packs, we use the last of the sun to make a direct line west, into the heart of the city where we know the remains of the hospital lay. Smoke continues to drift overhead, making it darker than even evening would normally allow. Occasionally a winding street or pile of rubble causes us to drift off course, but we make progress and traffic picks up again the closer we get. Pulling out our flashlights, we ignore our fatigue, fighting our way into the midst of suffering and death. I cling to Peeta's hand, leading the way and trying not to give in to the desire to run when my beam of light catches on the grisly sight of mangled flesh severed from a body once whole. Swallowing back the nauseous bile pressing at the back of my throat, I hope that each one is not a piece of my mother and press on.

We know we are going the right direction when we can see spotlights breaking through the gloom like haloes guiding the way for the lost and wounded. Less than a block from the original sight of the hospital an open yard outside a factory warehouse is lit up and sectioned off with massive tents. Soldiers, both armed and unarmed, move about directing recovery workers on where to place the victims in the proper stations for critical, beyond critical, and those to be identified later.

At first we are barred any admission from the yard until I very calmly and curtly inform an exhausted soldier of my name and association with General Coal. Asking for the man's name and rank, I inform him that he must get out of my way or plan on a career scrubbing pots in the kitchen back in 13. To harried and distracted to argue, he lowers his rifle, steps back and lets us through.

I know that we should visit the warehouse first, but something keeps me from following the pair of workers carrying a stretcher weighed down with an immobile form covered from head to toe with a bloodstained blanket. I can't do it, not yet. First I want to see if she's among the living. Wounded, healing, whatever the case may be. She has to be among the living.

"This way," Peeta takes the lead and we ease our way into the first tent on our right.

The stench of suffering immediately hits my senses and I grip Peeta's arm, blinking rapidly and taking short, labored breaths. It is worse than the victims of the bombing in 8. Much worse. The air is thick with growing infection and the tent canvass presses it in like a heavy shroud. The lighting is low and it is several moments before my vision adjusts and I can put a picture to the horror I am surrounded with.

There had been no time to even bring in cots. The injured are lying directly on the ground in horizontal lines in two rows down the length of the tent. Inadequate numbers of healers move among the groaning, oozing patients doing little more than trying to contain the flow of disease and provide some comfort for the dying. Peeta catches the pale look on my face and stops, asking if I would like to leave.

"No," I insist, steeling my reserve and moving forward. If my mother is anywhere, she is here.

No one even takes notice as we slowly move up the aisle, careful not to disturb anyone at our feet and peering quickly at each face full of defeat and agony. Relief lessons the tension in my stomach as none of the wounded spread out on their death mats resembles my mother. However, my anxiety renews as we near the end of the line without any sight of her among the healers. She has to be here, she can't be among the missing still waiting to be pulled from the rubble. I can't accept that, not yet.

"Katniss," Peeta tightens his grip on my hand and turns my attention on the far corner of the tent. Kneeling low over a colorless patient with a gaping hole in his head, a weary, bent-backed healer lays a hand on the man's motionless chest. Her hands are stained red; her blood splattered clothes look like they have been worn for days. Her blonde hair is matted and falling out of its binding, obscuring her face…but I would know those healing hands anywhere.

"Mom?" I fear that I am trembling as I move quickly through the crowed aisle, hoping that what I am seeing is real, that she is really there. "Mom!"

She turns and catches sight of me, standing on shaky limbs and reaching out as I fall in her arms and hug her tighter than I have since I was little. "Katniss," she can barely speak for weariness and disbelief in seeing me there among all that death. "How did—"

"You're okay," I break in, squeezing her tighter before letting go reluctantly. Years of distancing myself from my mother and suddenly I don't want to let her go. The look on my face takes her off guard and causes her to pause, pressing her chill hands to my shoulders awkwardly before speaking.

"Of course I am." There is a tremor in her voice that has more behind it than exhaustion.

"Were you there?" I ask.

Mom shakes her head, tears forming in her listless eyes. "Home, sleeping. I wasn't feeling well after the train ride. Raul…he left me there to come to work…" she glances down at the man at her feet and I follow her gaze, recognizing the face for the first time. The calm reserve has not been erased, even though the life has.

Kneeling down once again, Mom raises a trembling hand and fumbles with the blanket covering his waist. Dragging it forward, she covers Healer Twill's lifeless face.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Mom gives us directions to her house on the northeast edge of the District and tells us to go get some sleep. I suggest that she come with us, worrying about her own fatigue and state-of-mind, but she merely shakes her head and insists that we go, she would find us later. I don't know how we even find the house in the dark. Most of the journey is a blur to me as I am nearly asleep on my feet. Leaning on Peeta for support, I know only that he is in the lead and, in time, has us stumbling through a low door to a single basement apartment, dark with shadow and smelling of healing herbs and spices.

We are covered with grime and don't wish to disturb Mom's tidy bed in the single back bedroom. Peeta digs up some spare quilts from somewhere and lays out a pallet on the floor before the stove. We both drop onto it without bothering to even undress, falling fast asleep.

I awake early, forgetting where I am until I realize that what pulled me from my unconscious state was the sound of the door closing behind Mom as she enters from outside. A brisk, salty breeze follows her in, and I shiver, rolling over and peering out from beneath the covers to make her out in the dim room. Gray rays of light filter through the curtains in the single, garden-level window above a narrow sofa at the front of the apartment, and I know that it is morning.

"Did you sleep?" Mom asks softly, not wishing to wake Peeta. I nod and she moves on, stoking up a small fire and reaching for the kettle. I listen to the gentle sounds of her easing around the kitchen, filling the kettle at the sink, setting out ceramic cups, drawing a serrated knife across a tough loaf of bread. For a moment I can almost imagine I am little again, lying in bed beside Prim listening to the sounds of my parents moving about the house at dawn.

"Don't get up if you wish to sleep," Mom interrupts my musings. "But if you would like some tea, I'll set it to seep for you."

I assure her I would and crawl with aching limbs out from the warmth of lying by Peeta's side, tucking the quilt back around him and leaving him to sleep a while longer. I almost stop short before reaching the scrubbed wood table where Mom sits in a heap of exhaustion. She looks as if she has aged a year since the night before, ten years since the wedding. Her hair is falling loose from its band, thick with grit from the falling debris of the hospital. She has attempted to scrub her hands of blood, but there is a stained look of red about her raw fingers that gives me a chill.

Taking a seat across from her, I search the lines of her drawn, pale face, and feel sympathetic and tired for her. "How many?" I ask, knowing she would understand what I am asking.

Mom slides an empty cup my direction and sighs. "Too many to count yet. I don't think they even will until the search is officially called off. They worked through most of the rubble through the night, but the section where the bombs went off is so twisted and compressed that it could take many more days to know."

And even then they won't have much to remove and count as single bodies, I think morosely. And of course there were still the wounded, alive but without much hope of making it in the end. The numbers will likely be astronomical.

"We're running low on supplies," Mom continues. "They tell us that new shipments are to be brought in by hovercraft from outlying districts today, more by train tomorrow." There isn't much hope in her words, but it is something. We sit in silence a moment while waiting for the kettle to boil and I insist that Mom let me pour.

"Are you going back today?"

"Eventually," she nods, accepting her tea gratefully. "My superior insisted that I get some rest, but I don't know how I will sleep."

I agree that she needs to at least try, imagining that no matter what agony her mind is going through, her body will shut down the minute she lays down.

"What about you?" she asks. "Will you return to 12 today, or continue on your tour?"

"No," I respond shortly. "As far as I am concerned, the honeymoon is over." I don't know about Peeta, but I also had no intention of heading home right away. How could we just return to the mundane in 12 when there is so much need right here in 4? "I would like to stay," I tell her. "Help with recovery or whatever they could use me for."

"You are married now," Mom says with a slight teasing inflection. "Don't you think you should consult with your better half before making that decision?"

"Peeta will agree," I am sure, riling a bit at the thought of having to ask anyone's permission, even my husband's. "He'll want to help too."

"She wouldn't give me a choice even if I didn't." A muffled response met us from the pile of bedding on the floor and Mom fails to cover her amusement, chuckling into her tea.

"You married a wise man, Katniss."

"A real wise mouth, maybe," I retort.

After a quick breakfast, Peeta and I accept Mom's offer to use her shower and wash up before we leave. She is in bed when I peek in and tell her goodbye. Unsure of what our plans will amount to, I don't promise that we will return but assure her that I will be in touch and won't leave District 4 without saying goodbye.

Not knowing where to start, Peeta and I head back to the beach under the early morning sun to find General Coal. Aside from wanting to offer our services to the recovery efforts, I want to know what is going on with the rebels. More importantly I want to know what is being done to stop these perpetrators and punish them for their crimes.

A cloud still hovers over the District from the hospital's smoldering remains, but the wind blowing in off the sea begins to break it up. There are less people out on the streets than the night before and we find our way easily back to the harbor where several more command center tents have been erected on a portioned-off section of the beach.

It takes us several minutes to work our way through the security chains-of-command to get to General Coal, but our familiar faces and celebrity status helps clear the way considerably. The General is seated at a portable table eating cold toast and dropping crumbs over piles of maps spread out in front of her when we are led into her tent. She appears grateful to see us and asks of my mother. Upon hearing that she alive and safe, Coal beams and roughly shakes my hand in congratulations.

"Now," she leaves off the pleasantries and returns to her toast. "What can I do for you this morning? Are you in need of quick transport back to your train in 13?"

"No," I move in and can't help but peer at the maps on the table, realizing they are of the wilderness just outside District 4. "Actually, we were hoping we could stay here and be of some help. We could join the workers at the hospital, or help move supplies."

Coal is watching me with a queer, thoughtful look on her face, and I am afraid she is going to object. I know that she is head of command here, but surely she can't just send me home. I want to volunteer, I want to help, and not even the Capitol should have a right to stop me from doing that. I open my mouth to prepare an argument, but Coal speaks first.

"Volunteer…yes," she nods with a growing expression of agreement. "Yes, I think so, but not for recovery."

Peeta and I exchange a look of confusion and wait for her to explain.

"No, I could use you better somewhere else, if you're willing?"

"Of course," I say only a little reluctantly, not sure what I am agreeing to.

"My soldiers have discovered a fallen hoverplane twenty-three and one-half miles northwest of here. It appears to have crashed due to engine malfunction en route to District 2. We have possession of the craft as we speak, as well as two of the surviving crew members who were too incapacitated to flee with the rest."

"The rest?" I look up from the maps where Coal has been tapping a finger, indicating the general whereabouts of the crashed hovercraft.

"Yes," she nods. "From what we can deduce, there were as many as thirty crew members aboard when it went down. Three are dead, two captured. That leaves twenty-five unaccounted for. I intend to send trackers out within the hour to pick up a trail that may lead us to their whereabouts. This is where you would come in handy," Coal leans back in her seat and looks up at me expectantly. "You too, Mr. Mellark, if you are inclined. My soldiers are well trained but have no actual hands-on experience tracking in the wooded wilderness of Panem. These rebels are stealthy and deadly with weapons. Who better to lead a chase than you?"

"Well, I agree that Katniss is," Peeta pipes in.

"Don't," I frown.

"Don't what?" he can't help but give me in infuriating smile, knowing he is right.

"You've survived just as much as I have," I argue. "More, actually."

"But this isn't about survival," he points out, meeting Coal with agreement. "This is about hunting down evasive animals. Don't deny that I am no good for that." He taps his bum leg and makes his point all the more, leaving me with nothing to say in the contrary. "You need to go," he gives the unnecessary assent. "Leave me here to do what I'm good at."

"Bake cakes?" I ask sardonically.

"Unload supplies, move rubble, whatever the General thinks I would be best suited to do."

"That sounds like a fine plan, Soldier Mellark," Coal stands to begin preparations. "We'll have you suited with a post immediately. And you, Katniss, will need a uniform and supplies. I imagine a bow would be your weapon of choice for this excursion?"

She leaves us momentarily, ducking out of the tent and calling out orders to those standing outside. I look at Peeta with some hesitancy. The mission alone sounds thrilling, better than pulling bits and pieces of victims out of the remains of the hospital that is certain. But it doesn't come without its reservations and I worry that Peeta is showing more bravado for my sake than is really honest.

He reads my mind in a glance, and it's his turn to appear annoyed. "Give me more credit than that," he moves in, brushing my arms with the tips of his fingers. "I would beg you to stay if I knew you wouldn't regret going. Coal is right; you are the best one for the job."

"You should go with me."

"I will not be the one to slow you down," he shakes his head. "Just promise me one thing. Wear a wire, okay? Keep an earpiece in at all times and send back reports so I know what's going on. I'll check in at headquarters every so often and get the report. Okay?"

I nod and maintain a small smile for him, not wanting to appear too thrilled to be going just yet.

"What if we find them?" I ask, touching on dangers I know he is trying not to think about.

"Then take them down," he says. "Bring them in and be the hero all over again. You know you can."

"I will," I promise and mean it. If I get any scent of a trail of those vile rebels in those woods, I will follow it to the end and make them pay for what they took from my mother. From all of us.

Peeta wraps me up in an intense kiss that I don't forget for a long time, breaking away only when we hear General Coal returning on the other side of the tent entrance. Pulling away, he smiles softly and tucks a stray hair behind my ear. "Go get 'em."

Within the hour a team is ready to depart the beach by hovercraft for the crash site. Coal introduces me to Captain Millet, a stout but stern looking man in his thirties with the calloused hands of a laborer. I will take my orders from him, as he will have direct communication with Coal at all times. I am given my own earpiece as requested, however, and will have immediate correspondence with Millet, Coal, and District 4's command center at all times should any of our crew get separated. I am one of twenty-three soldiers leaving on the mission; though less than half of those numbers would be venturing from the crash site should we pick up a trail.

Peeta sees me to the hovercraft lunch pad for a quick farewell. I am nervous at leaving him, though not for myself. What do I have to worry about? He is perfectly capable of looking out for himself, and smart enough not to walk into any danger at the bombing sight. Despite this, I clench his hand tightly and kiss him one last time before boarding behind the rest of my team.

"Here," I hastily tug my pearl ring off my finger and tuck it safely in his palm, closing his fingers around it. "Hold it 'til I get back, I don't want to lose it."

Peeta nods and stands back, waving as I slip into the open door of the hovercraft just as we lift off. Sand whips up in the suction of the aircraft, causing a ripple of waves on the shore, and I lose him in the crowd of soldiers and volunteers on the beach as we ease into the sky and head north.

Millet lays the ground rules inflight. The plan is to touch down near the disabled rebel hovercraft, have a quick debriefing, survey the area, and take any findings into account before setting out on our search. According to our sources already on the ground, there is obvious evidence of human passage headed north away from the crash. "After about ten yards, however," Millet explains, "the tracks lead into a stream and disappear. This is where we need to pick up the scent and continue."

I consider this meager information while testing out the tautness of my bow string against the tip of my thumb. I wish I had my own weapon, but it is hanging in its place on my bow rack in my kitchen back in 12, out of my reach. This one will have to do, and I can't complain too much at that. District 13 has an excellent weapons department and no device has disappointed me yet. I just hope I can get a few practice shots in while on the ground before need should arise to take a direct shot at a moving target.

I wonder if there will be a need at all. What are the chances that we will even find the remnants of the rebel division? Slim, I expect. They have proven adept at evasion before and have a twenty-four hour head start. There is something too easy about the tracks left behind. I don't know what it is, and won't know until I see the terrain for myself, but it makes me wonder.

There is little time to do so, however, as we soon are touching down in a clearing not far from the crash site in the trees. I can see the crest of a mountain range in the distance and notice the roll of a bed of forest trees inclining out of the bowl of a valley we set down in. A thin trail of smoke pinpoints the location of the crash, but it is all I can see before the hovercraft lowers below the tree line and we prepare to disembark.

Millet gives the unnecessary warning to keep our eyes peeled and heads down, directing us to follow him with a brisk hand movement before marching off into the brush at a speedy crouch.

My borrowed uniform is designed for someone with a smaller build than I am. It clings and chaffs a bit in uncomfortable places, and I immediately begin to sweat in the humid, late morning air. The boots they provided, though supportive, are not exactly conducive to stealthy movement on rocky terrain. I am tempted to ditch them and go barefoot, but am not sure Millet will agree with this. His style of command seems rather no-nonsense and he definitely lacks General Coal's sense of humor.

Despite the clunky footwear, we make good time and soon march out among a cluster of redwoods that have been snapped like matchsticks under the weight of the hovercraft. It sits several feet off the ground, resting nearly on its side like some haphazard tree fort about to lose its support holds. I see many shattered windows, busted compartments, and hanging electrical wire. There is heavy, lingering scent of burnt metal and half of the vessel is scorched black from flames long since extinguished.

A small group of soldiers have set up a makeshift camp in a cramped corner between some trees and Millet heads there first to add half our team to their investigation squad. Finding the officer in charge, he makes our presence known and demands an update on their work there.

"We've seen or heard nothing in the last eight hours," she tells him quickly and efficiently. "That was when we found these two here," she nods toward a lean-to covered in canvas where two grimy, bloody forms lay on pallets surrounded by soldiers. "They were left to fend for themselves near the plane. Three others were found dead in the cockpit, all from wounds to the head on impact."

Millet nods, knowing as much. "What have they told you?"

"Very little. One cannot maintain consciousness for longer than a few minutes and says nothing coherent. The other does a great deal of screaming but has a tough reserve."

"Well," Millet's jaw tightens coldly, "then break it."

The solider understands the command, saluting before walking briskly back to the lean-to and speaking shortly with one of her men. He nods in response and takes control, picking up an ominous device from a nearby crate and carries it back to one of the immobile prisoners on his pallet. It reminds me of a blowtorch I have seen used at the blacksmith shop back in District 12 and, from my short glimpse of its demonstration, I see that the idea is much the same. Blanching in horror, I have trouble looking away as the rebel's pain-wrenched cries fill the air and echo off the trees.

"Soldier Mellark!" Millet calls for my attention and I jump, realizing that my team has left me behind, already heading off on the northern trail.

I quickly follow, but not without a few dark thoughts directed at the captain, his apparent lack of compassion, and the disturbing tactics used by the military to extract information. I understand those men are our enemies, but am suddenly thankful that Peeta isn't here to see that. The memories of torture are too vivid, even for me, and I only heard of them secondhand.

Catching up quickly, I push the thoughts from my mind and am soon distracted with the evidence on the trail. Millet described it right, a single-file path following the rise and fall of the forest floor. I see the typical signs of broken branches, flattened fern stems, and the occasional boot impression where the earth had been damp and spongy. It meanders straight north, then a slight curve to the west before ending abruptly at a muddy stream lined with jagged rock.

"Spread out," Millet orders. "Check both sides of the stream in both directions. We will meet back here in thirty-minutes unless something is found beforehand."

"That would be a waste of time," I mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

"Say again, soldier?" He is short with me, but I don't care.

Squatting down, I eye the ground closely, touching a boot print with the tip of one of my arrows. "That would be a waste of time, sir," I repeat, glancing up and meeting his eye, "because they didn't go this way." Frowning, I stand and prepare to go back the way we came. "They just want us to think they did."

If he is inclined to argue, I don't wait around to engage him. Let them search for a non-existent trail; I am going to find the real clues.

The crash site is quiet when I return with the sound of my team following a few yards behind me. I wonder if Millet has consulted with Coal on whether or not to trust my direction. This reminds me of my own earpiece and I switch it on, test out the microphone and wait for a response from headquarters.

_"Yes, Soldier Mellark?"_ comes the reply.

"Just checking in," I say. "Is it possible to get a message to my husband, Peeta Mellark, that we have landed at the crash site and are pursuing a lead?"

_"Certainly, soldier. Your message will be delivered immediately. Will there be anything else?"_

"No, not yet," I sign off but keep my frequency open. I don't know whether or not Millet and Coal are using a private line to communicate, but if by chance they aren't, I would like to be able to hear whatever they might have to say.

Cutting across the northwest corner of the site, I scan the ground immediately around the crashed hovercraft. If my guess is right, these rebels are extremely skilled at going unnoticed. But, like any animal, they always leave a scent, no matter how faint.

There, I see it, barely perceptible and easy to miss unless you are looking for it. A single heel impression half covered with dry needles. It was a poor attempt to conceal it, perhaps because of their haste to get away from the hovercraft before the Capitol spotted them. It isn't likely they made the same mistake twice.

The print belongs to a bare foot, not the rubber sole of a shoe. They did what I would have done, wish I can do. They removed their boots and went on foot for a lighter tread. The pathetic individual who left the print should have lost a few pounds before volunteering to go on such a precarious mission. Lucky for us, this one liked his three square meals.

"This way," I tell the others, keeping low to the ground and following my instincts. It's not just about evidence anymore. It's about knowing the pray, guessing their next move. And my guess is they were as unfamiliar with the land as I am. What would I do if I knew where I wanted to go but not how to get there? Follow the sun…straight west to the mountains.

This time I hear it, a little voice in my ear speaking to Millet on his earpiece as well. _"Follow her, Millet,"_ Coal commands, her characteristic grin coming through over the line._ "And try and keep up."_

Just as I thought, there is little to no signs to follow for the first few miles. A snapped twig now and again, but so few and far between it could have been created by a rabbit just as well as a human. I travel mostly by sound guesswork, keeping a straight line which only deviates to account for stationary obstacles such as trees or thick brambles. Doubt would have sprung up in my mind if it isn't for my next clue.

Climbing an outcropping of jagged boulders, I see a glint of gold under the sun at the top. Resting amid the pine needles blanketing the level surface of the rock shelf is a single shell casing from a rifle. They were hunting. If they were hunting then that means they had a long walk ahead of them and wouldn't make it before night fall. They would have had to make camp last night and possibly not far from here.

My next hope is that they built a fire. Even the best woodsmen can't hide all traces of a fire and I intended on finding them if any exist. It is always possible that they ate their kill raw, but there are few who can stomach that. I am banking on Rebel Heavy Heel needing a little char on his meat before consuming it.

Another half mile and I see it, a small clearing perfect for a group of displaced rebels to take a breather after a trying day of murder and malfunctioning get-away vehicles. At first glance it looks like any other piece of the forest floor, and I can tell Millet and his team are harboring unpleasant thoughts about my sanity. Millet may even be wondering if they shouldn't have stuck to the stream, despite the heel print and shell casing.

They don't see what I see, however, and without waiting for permission from my captain in command, I move in and survey the center of the clearing without disturbing any of my surroundings. A tall soldier with a clef-lip nearly walks into me when they follow, and I throw an arm up to stop him from stepping on my evidence. Scraping the bottom of my bow in the dirt, I carve away at a section of earth once rooted to the ground. Lines appear where the rebels had cut out a thick piece of sod and dug a shallow pit in the clay. Mixed in with the clumps of damp soil are the tell-tale signs of a small fire, just enough coals to cook chunks of skinned rodent on a stick.

"Genius," Clef-lip breathes in my ear and I refrain from rolling my eyes, standing and kicking aside the loose sod. Leaving the fire pit for the rest of the team to investigate, I circle the clearing in search of any other clues but find nothing. They took the time to not leave anything behind, not even the hide or bones from their dinner.

_"Katniss,"_ my earpiece comes to life and I hear Peeta on the other end. It is good to hear his voice, though I just saw him less than half a day before.

"Peeta," I turn away from my team and smile, pressing the communication device close to my ear. "How are you? Have you seen Mom since I left?"

_"Once,"_ he responds, sounding distant but clear. _"I stopped to see her at the medic tents. She still looks tired, but is doing okay. Look, I don't have time to talk much; I don't want to interrupt what you're doing. I just wanted to see how things are coming along."_

"Slowly," I tell him honestly but fill him in on what we've come across so far. "They're here," I am sure. "Close maybe, if we're lucky. If we keep up the pace we might catch up by nightfall or thereafter."

_"You will,"_ Peeta shares my optimism and gives me his encouragement. _"I guess that means I won't be seeing you before morning?"_

"Not likely."

_"I guess I'll have to make do."_

"Please," I am too distracted to appreciate his teasing. "You'll be too exhausted to even notice I'm gone."

_"Never,"_ he responds and we leave it at that, promising to connect again at dawn.

"Alright, Mockingjay," Millet approaches, convinced now that I know what I'm doing, "where to next?"

We take a quick break, eating from our provisions and sipping from warm canteens. I am eager to move on as the sun begins to dip ahead of us, casting long shadows into the valley. The further we hike, the higher the path winds, leaving the heavy, humid air for thinner, cooler breezes. As night begins to draw near, the foliage appears more sparse and the trees thin out as the ground becomes rocker and more difficult to trek. I take my time, making sure I am right before veering off in even the slightest direction. It would not have been difficult for them to cover their tracks up here. The ground is dry and thick with loose soil and pine needles. The wind all but obliterates any impression even made by our heavy boot prints.

At one point I stop, standing completely immobilized and silent. Millet puts up a hand and holds up his team, waiting on me. Training my ears on the rocky crags overhead, I scan every inch of ground within my sightline. There is something out of place, but I don't know what it is. Not on the ground, not in the trees. It is the rocks; there is something about the rocks I can't quite place. There is no opening that I can see, no crevice concealing a hidden door or cave. From where I stand it looks like little more than a wall with varying levels creating a lopsided staircase climbing to a higher ground level beyond.

"What is it?" Millet eventually grows impatient, stepping forward and speaking in low tones so that only I can hear.

"What do you see, Katniss?" Coal comes on through my earpiece.

I don't answer immediately, still not sure myself until the flash of a bird wing draws my eye upwards and I see it. "A force field," I announce. "There," I point to the glimmer of unnatural background just above the rock wall to my right. I have seen the weak spot in a force field enough times to recognize it and have no doubt that we are standing within three yards of where one lies.

"Force field?" Millet appears confused. "Here?"

"Yes," I am absolutely certain.

"Why?"

"Why else?" I take a cautious step forward, wondering at the level of strength this particular force field. We were looking at a simple obstruction to ward off intruders, or something more deadly?

Kneeling down, I find a marble sized pebble and pick it up. Taking aim, I ignore Millet's inquiring exclamation and toss the rock straight at the wall of rocks. Instead of connecting, it hits the force field, sparks and bounces back to my feet, smoking slightly and burnt black. Just as I thought, this force field is protecting something and doesn't want us to get in.

_"Well done, Soldier Mellark,"_ Coal congratulates me._ "Now hide, you fools, before your presence is made known and you blow the whole operation."_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

We retreat downhill a few paces and make camp in a dry ravine out of sight. The team is split into pairs and given watches for the night. No fires are needed and we are not about to give our location away by lighting one. It is cool, but not bitterly cold and I opt for the security of a tree rather than sleep on the damp ground with the others. From where I tie myself to a sturdy limb thirty feet up, I can see the outcrop of boulders through a break in the leafy branches. The sun is long gone, but the night is anything but dark with a clear sky laced with stars and a full moon high overhead. The perfect night for a watch, even the breeze is on our side, not too strong and blowing from the northwest, carrying our scent back down into the valley away from unseen watchers behind the force field.

I offer to take the first watch and the soldier I am paired up with agrees to keep an eye out from the ground, patrolling the perimeter of our camp while I watch from above. I cannot see the rest of our team hidden in the ravine, but I can hear them talking in hushed tones until the command to retire is given and all goes quiet.

It is an uneventful night and, even though my shift passes and I am given leave to sleep, I do not feel tired. The moon is too bright a nightlight to do much more than doze and I quickly find myself bored. If it wasn't for the force field I would have opted to go in and take down the rebels under cover of darkness, but orders from the General are to stay put and wait for reinforcements to arrive at dawn. Coal is preparing a team of technicians to airlift in and take out the force field as soon as they have light enough to work by. I am not comfortable that this plan is fool-proof, but my reservations are ignored and I am at the mercy of Millet's orders to keep watch and do nothing until further notice.

Sometime after midnight my legs began to go numb from sitting so long. Leaving my pack of supplies, I shoulder my bow and skim down the tree for a much needed walk. The two soldiers on patrol nod in my direction as I pass going uphill, stopping within yards of the outcrop to listen.

There is no sound other than the usual forest, late-night chatter but something is stirring. Deadened by the barrier of the force field, I cannot hear movement of a shadowy form on the other side, but I can see it. Certain that I am concealed by the surrounding foliage, I freeze, barely taking a breath.

It is a man, average height from what I can make out, and broad shouldered. He is wearing a uniform helmet which he removes before sitting on a slab of rock set back in shadow. He is quick, and if I hadn't been watching I would have never notice him there. He is one of the rebels, that I am certain, but where did he come from? I never saw him climb the stair of boulders or even slip down from above. Is there a secret hatch perhaps, a hidden door to some cave I couldn't see? It is very likely, but until the force field is destroyed there is no way of finding out.

A spark of orange flame flashes in the dark and I watch it glow, igniting the tip of what I assume to be a cigar before going out. All that is left is a pinprick of burning light to distinguish where the man sits. Either he is confident in the security of the force field, or the rebels have no idea that we are hiding nearby. The latter would serve us better, and I hope this is the case.

It takes the rebel a good ten minutes to tire of his cigar before he extinguishes it and rises to leave. I watch with unblinking eyes, eager to follow where he retreats. He is quick, and it is hard to tell, but from the looks of it I am right about a hidden opening on the right side between two jutting, vertical rocks. Waiting to ensure that he is gone, I move with caution, back down the hill to camp.

Millet is preparing to take his watch when I return. I tell him all that I have seen and deduced about the rebel hideout and he ensures me that the intelligence will be passed along to the upper ranks back in District 4. Thanking me curtly for my quick observations, he relieves me to go and try and get some more sleep before an early wake up call. I find my place in my tree and tie myself back in, feeling like I just might be able to comply and rest my eyes for a little while.

It is not my restlessness or even Millet's command which wakes me when it's time, but Peeta. I have forgotten that my earpiece is on and sometime before sunrise I hear his voice out of the gray and jump in surprise. Looking around, I feel foolish when I realize where the call is coming from and quickly respond, sounding drowsy.

"_Did I wake you?"_ Peeta's amusement is evident in the sound of his voice, knowing that he has taken me off guard.

"Yes," I reply moodily but glad to hear from him nonetheless. "It isn't dawn yet, why are you up?"

"_Close enough,"_ he argues lightly. _"I've heard all about the plans to take the rebel hideout this morning and I didn't want to miss you. Coal has already given the order for your reinforcements to head out. You'll be seeing them soon, I expect."_

"Good," I am relieved to hear this. Sitting up, I stretch lose a kink in my back from sleeping upright and untie my bindings, relieving me from the branch I am secured to. Tucking the rope away into my pack, I pull out a few dry crackers and my canteen, making a light breakfast while surveying the ground below. The moon is gone but a gray light seeps in over my shoulder in the east and I scan the sky through the trees for any sign of incoming aircraft. So far it is too dark to tell and I assume they are still a way off.

"I thought maybe you would be with them," I say, turning back to the west and watching the outcropping for movement as well. There is no sound from the ground and whoever is on watch is keeping a low profile. "Even just to watch the action."

"_I considered asking, believe me,"_ Peeta responds. _"But the flights looked full as it was, and I have more to do here. We began digging around the intensive care ward last night. It was directly above where the bombs were triggered. We have a lot more to get through today and they can use all the manpower they can get."_

I shudder at the thought of what Peeta will be pulling free of all that wreckage and am thankful our roles are not reversed. "Just be careful, I doubt that structure is very sound…" My sentence trails off as I hear something.

"_Don't worry—"_

"Shh," I cut Peeta off and listen again. It sounded like a metallic click, like a safety being drawn back on a rifle. It could have been just one of the soldiers on patrol, but we had been ordered not to fire at anything without express command.

"What is it?" Peeta asks but with a lowered tone that I can barely hear through my earpiece.

"Something…" I whisper back vaguely, unsure myself.

Leaving my pack hanging in the tree, I take up my bow and ease to the ground, landing lightly and searching rapidly for any sign of something foreign in the brush. Securing an arrow, I circle around the base of my tree and strain my ears for any sound from camp but hear nothing.

Thinking it was all my imagination, I relax my grip on the bow and prepare to head down the slope to find the others in the ravine. They would be calling for me soon enough anyway and it would be better to be hidden out of sight now that the sun is rising.

"Peeta—" I get the single muffled exclamation out before a warm and gritty hand clamps over my startled mouth and cuts off my stifled scream. A muscular arm tightens like a vice around my chest and pins my arms at my sides before I have time to release the arrow from its string. I fight against the strangling hold of the man squeezing the air out of my lungs and manage to drop my bow before reaching up to rip the earpiece from my ear.

"_Katniss!"_ Peeta's urgent voice cackles through static on the line and I whip the device hard against the side of the nearest tree. I watch it crack and go dead, but it is too late. My capturer flings me to the ground, knocking the remaining air from my crushed chest and faces me head on. His red-rimmed, bulging eyes gleam at me from beneath his helmet and dart from my face to the bow and on to the broken earpiece, making a connection. His once white, ex-Peacekeeper uniform has been modified with paint and mud to camouflage its owner. This massive rebel reeks of sweat, foul breath, and what smells like human excrement. I can taste the odor of him and feel my stomach stiffen in revolt, watching in immobilized terror as he grins sadistically.

"Well, well," he growls, tightening his grip on the front of my shirt, half raising me from the ground so my face is mere inches from his own. "Looks like I snagged me a mockingjay."

The last thing I remember before everything goes dark is my frantic struggle to get free from the clutches of this monster. I clutch for my bow in the dirt and feel the sharp tip of my lost arrow before it is kicked away and the weight of the rebel soldier's knee crushes my wrist. I cry out in pain and his hand slaps down on my mouth again, pressing with such a force that it causes tears of pain to well in the corners of my eyes.

Please let someone have heard that, I think desperately. The distance from the ravine is not far, someone had to have heard my cry.

This odorous Boar seems to think the same thing, looking around quickly and listening for any sound of advancing feet through the woods while holding my frantic efforts to escape at bay. With his hand on my face I struggle to breathe, feeling sick with the growing stench of the man in my nostrils. His hand goes to his belt and I panic, thrashing on the ground as he deftly removes it. His intentions do not match my fears, however, and he simply uses it as a binding, winding it tightly around my head and creating a gag that cuts painfully into the sides of my mouth.

With both hands free, the Boar gets a firmer grasp on my wrists and attempts to pull me to my feet. He leans over to toss me over his shoulder like a sack when he receives a blow to the face from my knee. Cursing and dropping me completely, he recovers quickly from the shock, kicking my feet out from under me and sending me sprawling back to the ground.

There is no way our ruckus hasn't alerted someone down at camp, I am sure. Where are the soldiers on watch? Why isn't anyone coming?

Before I can make another attempt to break for it, the Boar, bleeding from the nose and sweating like the pig he is, reaches for a rifle he has dropped nearby. I see him raise it above his head, butt end down, just before being hit with the stunning blow that sends me into submissive unconsciousness.

I wake up but don't open my eyes. My body feels like a dead weight and I wonder if that is what I am, dead. It is cold, bitterly cold. I try to move but am unable to even lift a finger as if all my muscles have seized up and I am a breathing corpse. Yes, I know I am alive because the pain tells me so. It feels as though an iron spike has been driven into the top of my skull, touching each nerve with a relentless pain. When I do attempt to open my eyes I see nothing but flashes of color in tune with the throbbing of my aching head. It is darker than a tomb, frigid as a crypt, and I am sure that I have been buried alive in a casket of stone.

I feel a panic begin to rise in me all over again and, despite the agony of moving, I roll over and feel with trembling hands. I lay on a smooth floor of natural rock. It is as cold as ice but dry. On my left a wall rises above my head but when I reach with outstretched fingers I can feel no ceiling overhead. There is no wall to my right and some calm returns to me with this revelation. I am not in a tomb, but a cave, or a small section of a cave. And I am alone.

With great difficulty I manage to rise into a sitting position. Feeling woozy, I lean against the cool wall and gingerly touch the aching wound in my head. It is warm to the touch, wet, and my hair is matted with congealing blood. That stinking Boar has wounded me pretty bad but not killed me. Not yet.

My mouth is dry and my throat strained and aching. All I can think about is my earpiece lying cracked on the ground, the transmission cut off from District 4. How much did Peeta hear before my attempt to hide my identity? Where is he now, is he looking for me?

I know him too well to even consider that he isn't. I also know he is taking it hard, most likely realizing the danger he put me in by calling out my name in front of a rebel enemy. Forget that, Peeta, I plead in my mind. Just come find me.

The Boar couldn't have taken me far, and by the feel of my small prison I imagine justifiably that I have been taken within the confines of the rebel hideout beneath the outcropping of stone. They will find me when the force field is dismantled and the fortress taken down.

Inching forward, I feel with my hands for what lies ahead in the dark. The passage is longer than I expect and I realize the narrowness and length of the cave. Curious to know if I can stand, I pull myself up on shaky limbs and grunt in fresh pain when my wound collides sharply with stone before I am fully upright. Squatting down and moving slow on my hands and knees, I blink away the moisture springing to my eyes and begin to crawl sideways to my right. After about eight feet my hand goes out from under me with nothing to hang on to. Catching a scream in my throat, I cling to the floor beneath me, right arm lurching back from the chasm I narrowly avoid falling into. A loose pebble echoes against stone as it hits going down, once…twice…three times in a drop that turns my insides to ice.

Backing quickly away from the ledge, I flatten myself against the wall and pull my knees to my chest. The ragged sounds of my sobs fill the cave and bounce back in taunting tones which reverberate in my ears. "Peeta…" I cry with gasping breaths. "Oh God, Peeta…help me!"

A blinding light penetrates the darkness and abruptly interrupts my cries. Gasping for composure, I steel myself for what awaits, lurking behind the bobbing ray of a handheld lantern. I can make out more than one set of advancing footsteps and raise a hand to shield my eyes as they walk up and stand directly above me.

"On your feet, girl," a disembodied voice commands me sharply as his partner gets ahold of my arm and drags me upward. I stumble slightly but keep my balance, careful not to hit my head again on the low ceiling. I am pushed roughly forward, back up the passage the way they had come. By the light of the lantern casting shadows on the wall, I can see that the chasm I nearly fell into is merely a hole maybe five feet across. How deep, I cannot tell apart from the length of time it took the pebble to fall.

I am forced to walk ahead of the two rebel soldiers through a narrow stone hall for about ten yards. At the end they steer me left and I see the glow of several more lanterns at the end of a shorter passage.

We step out into what looks to be the central cave, a twenty square foot space packed with men in similar muddy uniforms as the Boar. The brutish man himself is there, reclining comfortably against the furthest wall with his feet up on a pack playing some sort of dice game with three of his comrades over a low crate. There are far more soldiers than could have possibly been in the crash. It seems as if we have stumbled upon at least one of the strategic hideouts the rebels are using throughout Panem.

Every inch of space is being used to house either soldiers or supplies. I see several bluish screens glare back at me from portable surveillance devices equipped with sonar and radar. It is obvious to me that my team's presence could not have gone unnoticed for long, and I am surprised that we weren't fired upon in the night. Certainly their numbers are greater than ours, but even as I wonder about this I realize it would not have been possible. So many of these rebels sit about, not from idleness, but because they are recuperating. The crash left many of them with wounds only slightly less threatening than what the two comrades they left behind to die at the sight had endured.

And then a new thought occurs to me. They know that General Coal is on her way. They are not simply hiding, but are trapped with only their force field to keep them in some semblance of control. It is likely they didn't have much of a hope of escaping…until a blundering, foul-smelling idiot happened to stumble on their one means of negotiating leverage…me.

I am dragged to the center of the room and pushed into a chair. One of the rebels snaps tight handcuffs on my wrists and chains my feet to a nearby crate before stepping back and leaving me in the hands of their commander.

She is a very masculine woman in her mid-forties. Not at all what I was expecting, she carries a distinct impression of the Capitol in her mannerisms and I deduce that she most likely came from the remnants of President Snow's personal bodyguard unit. I was under the impression that all of these soldiers were tried and executed, but apparently not.

"Welcome, Ms. Everdeen," she cannot refrain from smirking, taking in my bloodied, frightened state.

I burn with indignation thinking that she probably has been listening to my anguished screams back in my so-called cell. Raising a defiant chin, I meet her eye coldly and correct her sad mistake. "Mellark," I spit with clenched teeth. "My name is Mellark."

"Yes of course," she sneers. "Who could miss your blessed union with that pathetic bread boy? How touching."

My wrists tighten involuntarily against the hold of the cuffs and I long for the ability to punch this vile woman in the face.

"Where is your dear husband now, pretty bird? Not here to save you? But of course, you are the one who prefers to do all the saving. Such a hero you've turned out to be." She enjoys toying with her prisoner, trying to rile me like a spider would with a fly caught in her web. I have no desire to squirm before being sucked dry and don't intend on giving her the satisfaction.

"What do you want with me?" I get to the point and loath the continued sneer prevalent on her manly features.

"I believe you know how many of Coal's men are on their way here now," she starts with something simple but overestimates me.

"No," I reply sharply and her eyebrows rise. I was never told how many forces were to join us; I only know they are coming.

"But you know they have been sent, don't be stupid."

Her remark serves only to deepen my contempt and I give her nothing. I'm not the one who lacks intelligence here, and I'm not about to waste my breath.

"I want answers," she grows angry at my defiance. Squatting down in front of my chair and perching her bulky frame on the edge of an empty crate, she tries the intimidation factor and fails miserably. "I want to know how many soldiers, hovercrafts, and technicians. I want to know how they intend to break through my force field and how you knew it was there."

I laugh mirthlessly, not sure if she is indeed serious. "Did you miss the last Hunger Games?" I ask sardonically. Whatever fear I had felt waking up in that hellish place has practically dissipated in this woman's presence. How is it that these soldiers ever placed her in such high command? "Use your imagination," I snap impatiently, "it's not that hard to figure out."

It is her time to rile and for my insolence I receive a painful blow to the face. Nearly falling out of my chair, I have to catch myself. I taste blood between my teeth and my jaw smarts sharply from the blow. A soldier reaches out and thrust me back upright as the Commander flexes her raw knuckles and regains her composure.

"I don't have time for games," she tries a new tactic. "You will give me what I ask or I will pull it from you, starting with the status and whereabouts of my two men."

At first I don't know what she is talking about but then it hits me and I realize that she knows that the two rebels back at the crash site are still alive. Foolish of her really, to have left them to be subjected to the same torture she is about to inflict on me.

"Alive," I tell her, spitting blood on the floor at her feet. "And giving up all they know."

This time I am unable to catch myself, falling flat on my face from the force of her angry blow. A fresh explosion of pain rips through my skull and I lose sight in my left eye as it immediately begins to swell. They don't even bother to lift me back into my chair and the next thing I see through the haze of my blurred vision is the Commander wrapping a length of a heavy chain around her knuckles before moving in for another agonizing round of questioning.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

I am revived by an abrupt dousing of frigid water tossed in my face. I find myself back in the chair sitting face to face with a camera lens. Attempting to regain my senses, I squint through my one good eye and wince with all over pain. The crushed condition of my ribs makes it hard to breath, my face is tight with sticky blood, and the ominous swelling of my wrist suggests a nasty break. Adding to my blurred vision, there is a bright spot light obstructing my view and I can see nothing but shadows moving about speaking with warbled voices. I know the Commander is there somewhere; she hasn't left and is still carrying her lethal chain, slick and dripping with my blood. If I had the strength I would find her shoes and vomit all over them.

In the midst of my torture I confirm a few guesses. One, that the Commander was indeed once employed by the Capitol, and two, that she is completely senile. Between her pointed curses and taunts at my expense, she asks me harshly if I thought I was so special to be so tragic, if I thought I was the only one who had lost someone they loved when the bombs exploded outside the President's mansion?

Was it a child? A niece or nephew who she lost? I don't know but am struck by the thought that this twisted, murderous rebellion has nothing to with any illusion of loyalty to the late President Snow…this is revenge. How many of these other rebels are licking wounds from lost children? How many of them are still lamenting loses from the man-made avalanche in District 2? If I didn't hate them so much I just might feel compassion for their cause.

But the Commander has clearly lost her mind in her grief and mourning. And when I dare to point out the possibility that the hovercraft which dropped the bombs into a pen full of the Capitol's children was actually under orders from the Capitol itself, she proceeds to scream at me, taking her fury out on my ribs.

"That's a lie! Don't you think that by working in Snow's own office I would have known?"

I am smart enough not to respond to that, struggling to find my breath before blacking out for the first of many times.

I am never allowed to stay out for long. They have a job for me and not a lot of time to complete it. Taking a note from Beetee's book, the rebel technicians tap into the Capitol's main broadcasting system and prepare to make an announcement. Or, I should say, prepare for me to make an announcement.

The Commander coaches me on what I am to say once the camera starts rolling and all of Panem is listening. A silent soldier stands behind me, the upper half of his body clearly out of the shot to hide his identity. He is given the chain and wraps it tightly around my throat, holding it taught from behind, leaving just enough room for air so that I may speak when ordered to. Any deviation from the script and I will be cut off, literally.

"Don't be a fool," the Commander warns me coldly. "Just give them the list of our demands and keep your life."

"Who says I want my life?" I respond in near delirium. I am so dizzy and faint that I can barely keep my head up. If it isn't for the chain about my neck I will surely slip to the floor.

"Perhaps you don't," she sneers, holding up a cue card for me to read with a nod at the soldier behind the camera. "But there are a few others you care enough about who might value their lives more than you do your own. I have no qualms keeping you alive just long enough to allow you the chance to watch them suffer for your disobedience."

With that threat hanging in the air, the camera begins to record and I am prompted to speak with a firm tug on the chain. Coughing and struggling with scratchy vocals, I fight to keep alert and read the words swimming on the card three feet from my face.

"Citizens of Panem," I begin and know the sight of me will have the attention of all. General Coal, Mom…Peeta. My voice wavers slightly, but I press on. "For the heartless bloodshed of innocent men, women, and children you are indebted to pay an equally bloody price. If you believe this debt to be settled, you are very much mistaken. The Peace Restoration Force intends on collecting ten times the retribution for each senseless murder President Coin and her successors have committed. There is no way to avoid your fate. Each District will pay for their part in the rebellion, no one will go untested.

"I, Katniss Everdeen Mellark, the symbolic Mockingjay of Panem, am hereby ransomed for the cause of the PRF and their dedicated soldiers. Any prisoner of war, weaponry, transportation vehicle, or rebel base confiscated by the Capitol must be returned or forfeit the life of your Mockingjay. All efforts to waylay the passage of the PRF through the boarders of Panem will forfeit the life of your Mockingjay. All efforts to thwart the cause of the PRF…" I swallow a mouthful of bloody saliva and close my eyes against the searing light focused like the burning sun on my face before finishing the repetitive last line. "…forfeit the life of your precious Mockingjay."

The Commander nudges my foot with hers, encouraging me to continue and the chain tightens, snapping me back to life.

"Your plan to infiltrate the rebel stronghold will be futile and costly. Attempt to carry through with such plans and I will be killed." It is the last line given me on the cue card, but it is not all I have to say. Looking right into the camera I speak only to Peeta and General Coal, willing them to understand. "Do not take their demands lightly, other lives besides mine could be in jeopardy. You cannot take the stronghold; the northern entrance and central cave is too well guarded with double your original forces—"

My warning is cut short as the Commander knocks the light over in her fury, my head wrenches back with the force of the chain, and a sharp pain explodes behind my eyes as the camera breaks connection and so do I…falling into a sea of black and silence.

I wake up eventually, but don't want to. There has to be an end to this and the sooner the better. Of course there is always the chance that Coal understood my message and will find the cave entrance as soon as the force field is down. But what if they can never break it? What if they value my life so much that they don't dare try? It is an arrogant thought and one I don't follow. Forget about me, I will them to comprehend. Stop these monsters any way you can and keep Peeta and my mother safe. If they care anything at all for their blessed Mockingjay they will know that this is my wish, even if it's a dying wish.

I don't know how long I have been out. I am not even sure if they have put me back in the same cell-like cave as before and I don't have the will to investigate in the dark to find out. For all I know they have left me to rot in the deepest chasm, never to be found even in death.

Perhaps that is it. Maybe I have been unconscious for days, the Capitol Army has taken the fortress and disbanded the rebels…and left me. Maybe they couldn't find me, hidden away out of reach with no chance of calling for aid while lost in a deep sleep.

The horrible thought sends me back into a panic and painful sobs rack my chest sending waves of agony throughout my whole being. I want to scream but can't, to call for help but am sure that no one will hear.

No, I think desperately. They won't leave me here to die, Peeta won't leave me. He'll search every corner of this cave and beyond if he has to. I will not die alone.

The thought of Peeta sends me into a fresh wave of sobs and this time I embrace the pain because it is keeping me alive. Was this how it felt for him all those months imprisoned in the Capitol? Battered and fighting with his own mental horrors, wondering if I would ever break through those prison walls and save him? The torture he endured was far greater than mine, but he was never alone. Not like me, alone in this chilling void. He had the agonizing company of screams from his fellow prisoners, but at least it was company. I have only my screams, my broken body, and my terrorizing fear of never feeling the embrace of another soul again.

And then there is light. Half a dozen beams of advancing flashlights dancing off the walls in unison with the heavy tread of footsteps on the stone floor. They are coming back, back to force more information out of me or to control me like a puppet in front of the camera again.

I can hear voices echoing off the close walls but can't make out what they are saying. Everything is a blur and I feel overcome with dizziness, dreading being pulled to my feet and having to walk anywhere. I won't do it, whatever the Commander wants me to do, I won't succumb to her torture any longer!

Kicking out with desperate heels, I make contact with the first soldier to reach me, striking a blow to bone and causing him to grunt in pain. Dozens of hands reach out in the confusion of blinding light and receding shadows, clamping down on my limbs and forcing me to my feet. I can fight all I want, but I have no choice but to follow.

I am dragged through another stone corridor, different than the first and away from the central cave. I can hear raised voices echoing off the walls and the Commander's escalates above the rest, barking shrill orders while her soldiers scramble to comply. All is confusion and chaos and, just as I am shoved forward into a cramped, low-ceilinged room and met with a blast of cold air, I hear a jarring sound like a contained explosion from behind. The ground shakes and dust and pebbly rock cascade from the ceiling. Natural light mixes with the faint glow of the lanterns and I blink against the harsh change from solid darkness. What have they done? Blown up the central cave and blocked the way to our escape route?

There is an opening in the rock wall through which fresh air and light filter, and I realize it is a low doorway leading outside. Someone punches me in the small of the back with the butt of a rifle and I stumble before being directed roughly through the opening into the open air.

Two thoughts cross my mind amid all the disarray. First, the Army has broken through the force field. Second, I am out of the cave. Now more than ever I need my wits about me, I need a clear head and an opportunity to escape before they either kill me or drag me off to some new torture chamber. If only I can get my head to clear. I can barely see, and I feel as though I've been given a heavy dose of tracker jacker venom. All I can make out of my surroundings is moving figures in muddy uniforms, the sharp edges of rock shelves and the shadows of bowing trees that loom from above as if they are threatening to fall right over our path.

The urgency continues as the rebels make a run for it. Where we are going doesn't seem to be much of a concern and, if there is any plan, they certainly don't share it with me. If they are hoping to escape undetected, then I would think they would take greater care to keep it down. As it is, we sound like a herd of fleeing stags ripping through the underbrush. The Commander continues to bark out orders and, in my chance glances over my shoulder, I catch glimpses of her barreling in the wake of rebel soldiers brandishing a gleaming, silver pistol. She has acquired an earpiece and is yelling into the receiver to someone on the other end, and I realize that there is a design to this bumbling escape after all.

General Coal must have been right about the rebels having more than one hovercraft. How long it would take to reach us and where it would take us is something I dread. Glancing around in desperation, I resist the urge to panic and try to think. There has to be a way out of this. If only I could see straight, if only I could find the strength to outrun them.

"Got a death wish, Mockingjay?"

I can smell him before I even turn around, my jaw clenching with detestation as the Boar crashes through the undergrowth and sidles by me roughly. Go on, keep it up, you fat piece of lard, I think, glaring at him without reply. I found your footprints once when you were actually trying to hide. It will be all the easier for the army to trace them now amid all these tracks. Hopefully before it is too late.

"Try it," he sneered, judging my frantic glances at our surroundings correctly. "Try and fly, pretty bird, I dare ya." Shouldering his rifle with the threat, he eyes me like I am desirable prey before moving on ahead and shouldering his way through a group of rebels leading the pack.

Despising him with every fiber of my being, I pause in the small clearing were we pass and tremble with suppressed rage. My fingers itch for the bow I lost in the woods, anxious for an angry arrow to send deep into that pig's putrid flesh. I am given no time to revel in my revengeful thoughts as the soldiers in charge of me shove me forward with the sharp ends of their rifles and mutter warnings to keep moving.

After what feels like a mile I am desperate to end this flight. My head is throbbing and I feel on the verge of collapsing, getting sick, or both. Why couldn't they just leave me to die right there? I don't care if they get away or where they go, I just can't keep this up much longer.

Scrambling on trembling limbs up a short incline twisted with tree roots, I cry out in pain as I fall with all my weight on my broken wrist. The two rebels at my side quickly drag me back to my feet and force me into motion once again, silencing me with curt threats. It is then that I hear it.

The trill of a mockingjay sounds somewhere above me, but not with just any random tune of a curious bird. It is singing Rue's song.

I stop, not caring about the soldiers or their worthless threats. Trying hard to focus with blurred vision, I desperately scan the trees in search of the bird. There, on a branch in the tree right above me. It is looking about the ground at the stream of escaping rebels and opens its beak to sing again. Several more mockingjays appear and take up the simple song in a chorus round. Soon the whole wood is ringing with the melody and my heart begins to pound.

The rebels also take notice and stop in their tracks, looking above in confusion. From behind I hear the Commander sharply demand to know what is going on, shoving her way through her scattered line of men to investigate the sound. No one responds to her inquiry because no one knows. No one but me.

I catch sight of a flicker of movement behind a tree five yards to my left and instinctively drop to the ground as an arrow whizzes overhead and lands deep in the throat of one of the rebel soldiers at my side. The other rebel in charge of my watch is next, quickly taken out by a bullet from an unseen rifle. The mockingjays fly from the trees in alarm as the air explodes in gunfire. Rebels scream and attempt to run for it or take to their own rifles, firing blindly into the brush.

Covering my ears against the din, I look around wildly for a place to take cover. Dust and smoke obstruct the air and the heat of battle stings my eyes and parches my burning throat. I being to crawl away from the two dying rebels at my side, attempting to make it to a cluster of overhanging ferns out of harm's way. A vice-like grip gets hold of my ankle and holds me fast and I turn to find the Boar clamped to my leg with a deadly leer on his perspiring face.

His eyes glisten with a feverish gleam and he slumps along the ground like some grotesque wounded animal. My stomach churns at the sight of his burnt and mangled flesh ripped at the kneecap on his left leg where a bullet has torn it to pieces. Digging into my own leg with his gritty nails, he drags himself forward with evil intentions.

I kick in desperation, fighting him off amid the scream of gunshot and heavy din of combat pressing in like a hot, sweat-drenched blanket. The heel of my foot finds the bridge of the Boar's nose and blood squirts from the break like a crimson stream. Angered by the painful blow, his eyes flash an ugly shade of green and he reaches for a knife stuck in the lining of his belt. He is too slow and barely has time to raise the blade before I take up a discarded rebel rifle and plant a bullet in the center of his head.

I lower the weapon as his neck snaps forward, face first in the greasy, bloodstained grass. The grip on my ankle instantly goes slack and I kick his hand away, repulsed by the sight of him and the carnage surrounding me.

General Coal's army is emerging from the trees at a run, firing as they advance with warrior-like yells of triumph. A few fall with muscle tearing wounds from the rebel's fire, but their numbers are greater and resolve stronger. Standing on higher ground with the element of surprise on their side, the Panem army quickly has the rebels surrounded. Within minutes it is over and the Commander and her small army are taken.

Afraid to move and too broken to try, I lay panting on a bed of dry pine needles, staring at the tuft of nearby fern stirring lazily in the light breeze. Voices ring out in the din as General Coal's men swarm in and take control of the remaining prisoners. I gingerly roll onto my back, avoiding the gruesome sight of the Boar lying dead beside the rebel still twitching and gurgling blood around the imbedded arrow in his throat. The air begins to clear I see the shadow of a familiar silhouette approaching quickly through the confusion.

I attempt to call out but find my voice stripped and dry, emitting nothing more than a sound like a strangled cry. Unable to do much more than reach a quacking hand, I wait for Peeta to run to me, calling my name and pushing aside anyone who gets in his way.

"Katniss…" The look of relief in his eyes quickly fades, replaced with sorrow over the state of my wounded face. I try to move, clutching at the front of his shirt and managing to say his name in a broken whisper. Tears spring to my eyes and blur my vision once again as I am overcome by the sight of him, of being rescued from that hell. Peeta silences me with a rapid kiss, afraid to touch me too much in my state and cause me any more pain.

"Don't move," he gently lays my head back, gripping my trembling fingers with his steady hand. "We're going to get you out of here, I promise. It's okay, Katniss. I've got you."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

While being airlifted out of the wilderness on a stretcher, Peeta refuses to release my undamaged hand. At first he won't allow me to even speak. I want to know what happened to the Commander. In the turmoil after the shooting, all was a mess of incomprehensible commands and confusing orders. A medic on the field gave me a dose of morphling before they moved me onto a stretcher to be airlifted to the first hovercraft at the scene. I care nothing about the other rebels, or even what is to happen next. I just want to know what was done with the Commander.

"Tell me, Peeta," I insist firmly. "Where is she?" I tighten my grip on his hand, forcing him to tell me.

He looks as though he is going to continue to deny my request but sees the look on my battered face and gives in. With a tone of contempt, he tells me of the Commander's fate. "Dead," he states bluntly, looking away. "She put a bullet in her own skull the moment we commenced fire."

I can tell he sees her as a coward and, at first, this is my same reaction. Not a coward, I realize. She was too far gone for that. The desperate have no fear, only a self-important cause that diminishes their common sense and narrows the mind. The Commander's bullet was her nightlock. Only, for her, there was no one around willing enough to stop her hand.

I feel sorry for her and all the rebels. They will all die for their cause, a repayment for their crimes which were a repayment for ours…and on and on… As I allow myself to slip back into a drug induced sleep devoid of pain or conscious thought, I think how pointless it all is and wish there was someplace where revenge is unheard of and peace the standard.

Before I fully succumb to the drugs dragging me down, I feel Peeta's tender fingers on my mine and look down. A ray of light hits the shiny surface of my pearl ring where he has placed it back on my finger. Squeezing my hand, he smiles sadly and brushes the hair back from my forehead, encouraging me to let go and close my eyes.

They take us all the way to the Capitol and set us up in a guest house on the grounds of the President's mansion. Medical supplies are carted in and I am given the best attention the healers of the Capitol have to offer. I am grateful for their care, but really just want them to leave. Peeta senses this and, after it is ascertained that I am in no immediate danger, he asks them to give us a moment before they bandage me up.

Once we are alone, he sits gingerly on the bed where I lay. With gentle fingers and careful movements, he cuts away my blood and sweat drenched uniform. First the shirt, then the pants, dropping them in a pile to be removed and burned later. Every inch of me screams in protest but I grit my teeth and remain still as he moves on to my undergarments, moving quickly to spare me as much pain as possible. The look in his eyes betrays his conflicted feelings at the sight of my numerous wounds, but he says nothing.

Picking me up like I am nothing more than a light sack of flour, Peeta carries me into the adjoining bathroom and sets me down on the floor of the massive, marble shower. Picking the mildest setting, he brings the stream of water to a comfortable temperature and reaches for a soft, clean cloth.

He ignores the fact that he is fully dressed and getting drenched himself under the spray while carefully washing away the blood and grim from my skin and hair. It is agony, sitting in that position with so much pressure on my ribs. With Peeta's help, I stretch out on the floor, reclining in his lap and let the water fall over me like a gentle, soothing rain.

It isn't the pain which brings tears to my eyes, a cry catching in my chest and causing me to tremble. For the first time since leaving the woods I am overcome and feel broken beyond the physical damage. Tears fall unheeded from swollen, red-rimmed eyes and mix with the water dripping from my chin. My whole body shakes and Peeta discards the rag completely, holding me close and using the tips of his fingers to caress the fear and anguish from my face. He doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. His presence in the strength of his being is enough and I cry in his arms until there is nothing left to cry…until the nightmare of the cave washes down the drain and away.

We spend nearly a month in the Capitol while I recuperate. I suppose the respite could actually be called our true honeymoon because, other than a single interview about the events in District 4, we are left entirely alone. Peeta spends some of our stay in conference with President Paylor bringing back updates of the ongoing missions to round up the last of the rebel stragglers. Interrogations of the prisoners taken at the wilderness cave produce significant evidence which leads to the discovery of the rest of the rebel hideouts throughout Panem. It is deduced that the rebel agenda consisted of separate attacks on each District as well as the Capitol, all to be carried out within a few months. With their head commander out of commission, insurgent resolve has quickly declined, and the Panem military finds little resistance to contend with. The minor rebellion seems at an end…for now.

When my ribs heal and the bruises on my face dissipate, we prepare to head home. The stiches have been removed from the wound in my head and, though I am still overcome with occasional headaches, I am no worse for wear because of it. I continue to wear a cast around my healing wrist but will undoubtedly cut it off as soon as we get to District 12.

When Peeta and I finally board the train headed east I breathe a sigh of relief, squeezing Peeta's hand and slipping into a smile. The stay at the Capitol was restful, but I am eager to be home. It feels strangely as if we have come full circle on this trip. It was not what it was intended to be, but we left on a train and are returning on one having, sadly, served the purpose of the Capitol once again. Not sadly, I suppose. Not this time. I would have preferred not to have been captured and tortured but happened to be in those woods for a reason and by my own choice. I survived another round of hell on my own terms and am thankful to be alive once again.

Haymitch is waiting for us at the station when the train pulls into 12. He helps me off and offers to take half of the luggage from Peeta, watching me with a scrutinizing gaze.

"What?" I ask queerly, receiving no more explanation than a brief shake of his head. "I don't look that bad do I?" I make an attempt at humor.

"Well," Haymitch shrugs. "There were rumors that those rebels had plucked our Mockingjay of all her feathers, but I never thought…" he trails off, looking almost sad.

"Never thought what?" I don't understand his expression and don't like it.

"I never thought they would be right."

Without saying more, he leads the way toward the Village and Peeta and I exchange a private glance before following. His comment makes an impression on me, and I finger my braid self-consciously, wondering about it. I was under the impression that I had not allowed my captures to strip me of anything of value, but Haymitch had a way of seeing through me like no one else could. What has he seen in me before that isn't there anymore? I am tempted to ask but we are nearing my house and Haymitch reaches the kitchen door first, dropping the luggage on the steps and pulling out the key he has acquired from Greasy Sae.

Opening the door, he steps back and holds up a hand for us to enter. "Wait, wait," he stops Peeta abruptly. "Don't you know anything, boy? Lift her up, come on," he motions at me impatiently. "Carry your bride across the threshold like a man."

Peeta chuckles and I shake my head impatiently but allow him to humor our cantankerous fellow Victor. Carrying me inside, Peeta steps back as Haymitch tosses our bags through the door and prepares to close it behind us.

"You two behave yourselves now," he says, looking foolish as he points a parental finger and disappears.

Peeta and I can only laugh and take in the solitude and warmth of home. Someone has gone through the trouble of moving all of Peeta's belongings into my house, making it ours. Probably to free up his so someone else could move in. This bothers neither of us and we spend the rest of the day 'playing house,' rearranging so that everything fits and is as it should be. I gladly offer up the entire sitting room for his artwork and Peeta spreads himself out with easel, paint, and what appears to be a few thousand brushes in every size imaginable. Like a giddy child, he eagerly loses himself in a fresh canvas and, as evening comes on, I curl up in a chair with my survival book and watch him create the beginnings of a masterpiece.

A cool breeze drifts through the open window and Buttercup purrs lazily on the rug at Peeta's feet. Someone laughs in the Village Square and a bird chirps in the tree just outside. I can smell the sweet aroma of cinnamon and primroses, feeling relaxed in the enveloping quietude of home.

There may be unrest in other parts of Panem, there may be strategy sessions in District 13 or plans for new Games in the Capitol. Somewhere my mother is still mourning for those lost in 4, but here, in our home, there is peace. And now I understand Haymitch's comment. The rebels have taken something from me after all. They've taken my desire to fight. Maybe not forever, but right then, all I want is to sit in silence and watch Peeta paint. To live and breathe in District 12 where I belong.

"Peeta?" I set down my book lazily and turn my head to where he stands absorbed in the perfect shade of orange.

"Hmm?" he answers distractedly.

"Peeta," I make sure he is listening, waiting for him to turn and look at me.

"Yeah?"

A coy smile betrays the excitement behind what I am about to propose, surprising even me. "Peeta, I…I want to make your baby."

The look on his face causes my smile to break out into a grin and I refrain from laughing as his neglected brush drips paint on the floor. Deciding that I am not in fact joking, Peeta drops the brush completely and crosses to my chair, plucks me from the cushions as I give a small yelp of surprise, and kisses me firmly on the mouth. Before I can change my mind, he carries me upstairs into the bedroom.

He has nothing to fear, however. I've never been so sure in my life. There will be times of doubt, I am sure, but I want that little girl with the braids and Peeta's eyes. I want to make a family with this boy with the bread and his unwavering devotion. The rebels and Peacekeepers, the Games and President Snow, they may have stolen my feathers, but this Mockingjay remains unharmed. Perhaps I am changed from who I was before the Hunger Games, but for once I am truly comfortable with who I am, know where I belong, and love who I am with. Try as they might, the Capitol can never diminish what Peeta and I have. They can never take it away because we have outsmarted their games. The proof lies in a dream of a little girl who will never fear her name being called on Reaping Day, in the promise of more children free from the bloody stamp of sacrifice.

Inviting Peeta onto the bed beside me, I savor the taste of his lips on mine, the urgency of his hands on my eager body. Pulling him in, I recruit a willing coconspirator in this, our last act of defiance against a world bent on war and destruction, to prove we can be the creators of a better future and make that dream come true.

**Disclaimer: Nearly all characters and settings are borrowed from the brilliant mind of Suzanne Collins who I would like to thank for creating such a fantastic world in which to engage the imagination with such ease and enjoyment. The author of the Hunger Games Trilogy was in no way involved nor did she endorse any of the themes represented in the text of **_**Plucked.**_

**I hope you all enjoyed reading **_**Plucked **_**as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you to those who took the time to respond with reviews, it made the experience all the more intriguing. This was my first attempt at fanfiction, and it was a pleasant experience. You may very well see something from me again as I am obsessed with these characters and can't seem to let them rest in peace. Thanks again! **


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